Moments before my first stroke, the first bad one, I was overcome by the smell of waffles and hot syrup, a real olfactory wallop, that starchy essence of seared batter and the sharp carbon zing of scalded sugar. I was sitting at my desk doing nothing special after the Tuesday morning staff meeting, and, bang, there it was. Waffles. And syrup.
I probably haven’t eaten a waffle in forty years. Fifty. Pancakes, either. I never ate like that. Even as a kid, I was a careful eater. I’d eat a bowl of Wheaties or an apple. My father would make waffles, that was his thing, he had about forty minutes of fatherhood a week in him, and he used it up on Sunday mornings, making waffles. He left us when I was eight. My daughter’s like me, a poached egg would be a big deal. Most days, especially toward the end, after Marjorie and me finally called it quits, I got by on a cup of coffee, black, and a Power Bar. Now, of course, it’s a mouthful of juice from one of these devious single-serving containers the nurse has to peel open for me, and a spoonful or two of creamed wheat.
But that smell of waffles, it was so intense; it was like two poles connected by an electrical current over a vast distance, the air cleared by a powerful crackling charge, and then I was on my knees, wedged sideways between desk and chair, stunned and shivering, seeing so suddenly and clearly all the years that have passed while I haven’t done a thing.
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Harry, great minds think alike.
Here’s a blurb from my story, The Price of Luxury, over at PANK (http://www.pankmagazine.com/the-price-of-luxury/)
“It was strange after he left, especially Sundays. He was rarely around during the week, but Sunday morning was our time to do the crossword together, before my mother woke. Sometimes he made me pancakes; it was the only thing he knew how to cook.”
Also, I love this: “a real olfactory wallop, that starchy essence of seared batter and the sharp carbon zing of scalded sugar.”
I can imagine the pain, the numbness, and then how the memories flood in with their own sensory overload. Great piece of writing.