The Ethereal Man

The smell of vodka always reminds me of my childhood. I wasn’t in a broken home, nor was I experimenting with alcohol at a young age.

There I was, - five years old – with my khakis at my ankles, no shirt on, sitting at the kid’s table trying to separate the marshmallows from my Lucky Charms.

Come comb your hair, mother would yell – she was hurried. They say that smell triggers memory. Every Sunday before church, she would fill the room with her hairspray. Tentatively, I’d enter the aura of her makeup lighting above the mirror. The spray’s spicy burn would coat my throat and talk to my nose as if to say, cough…sneeze. Choke.

Fifteen years and ten waist sizes later, who knew Monsieur Grey Goose would be helping me reminisce over childhood Sabbath rituals? The familiar waft that made me cringe in my Doc Martens when Clinton was president still hovers a few inches above a Vodka-Red Bull.

Perhaps it’s the irony that makes this connection so firm in my mind, or maybe it’s the juxtaposition. Whatever it is, it’s like something is speaking to me whenever I have this realization. My senses, arguably the only tangible aspect of this life exploding with perception, keep me grounded in my childhood.