Mother, there's only one

Have you ever wondered if a phrase or a poem can evoke a scent? A small poem like this one may possess such power:

You are mommy, spring flower
That brings joy to our home.
Your eyes are like the shining moon
Your hair the blackest night;
Your smile the yellow sun
That makes my siblings and I
Feel like we're in heaven.
You are mommy, the prettiest of roses.

The memory comes loaded with the scent of freshly baked cookies, an incentive to write more, or the smell of new pencils that have not yet been sharpened. Do you think that's possible?

Today, I have read it countless times and it transports me to that moment. The poem written by a 9-year-old does not seem to have such abnormal powers, but its letters, that effort to construct such simple verses, yet with so much feeling, bring back memories. They are the first steps, aided by an adult who understood more about the subject.

I read it and catch a glimpse of the moment. I remember being accompanied by other children, and we all wrote different poems. Some wrote about the blue sky, about the beauty of waking up alive, but I wanted to write about my mom. That was the first poem I wrote, and the one my father kept anticipating my disorder.

If I had not read it, I would think it was longer. However, there is definitive proof that it was only composed of 9 stanzas. Memory is a barbaric thing; in the end, the poem is loaded with more memory.

It is a powerful scent that leaves several images in my mind. The image of several children tearing their notebooks and a family friend who guided us all. She set literary challenges for us and made us continue practicing the art of poetry. The poem also makes me reflect if at that time I was already writing stories or if it was only the beginning of that trajectory. The only thing I know is that many more poems emerged from that first poem, perhaps more elaborate and beautiful, but never with the same style or innocence captured in those childlike verses.

I read it again and remember the recital. I remember how we all went out nervously to exhibit ourselves. It was the first time I recited my poem in front of so many people. A large number of neighbors and family members of the initiated poets had been invited. The time-lapse was quite long, and images of the three poems that I read, which were of my own making, as well as a fourth which was a collective poem elaborated by all the children, come to mind.

I do not know if those children continue to write; I do not know if literature approached them as it did with me. I already came with a base of books read, although I am not sure if they were only the first four books of J.K. Rowling or if some books by Julio Verne had also joined. I think that at that time, fantasy was deeply rooted in my childlike mind.

From a nervous child who read the poem titled "My Mom," "My Dad," or "My Grandmother" to a bunch of adults, I only remember how challenging it was to read without showing my nerves, although I know they were eventually noticed. But my mother tells another version, which I have come to think she said at the time to give me pompous ideas of being a poet and writer. She says that as soon as I read the poem, all the mothers, fathers, and grandmothers cried with my verses. What is in my mind is the scent of my sweat while reading those poems. I know there was applause, but everyone applauded us at the end.

Perhaps we, the writers, are just weird! Poems only make us remember the youth we were. Perhaps the scent is just a metaphor that my imaginative mind associates with. Maybe that's all it is! But it does not worry me; I know that since I started reading and writing, I would be a lunatic.

"Poems and scents," "poems and memories," "poems and feelings." They are good titles, or maybe they are verses that compose my mind with memories loaded with scent and feel. Then, I wonder if memories smell like that if that's their scent. Perhaps the scent I perceive is that of the poem on an old sheet, which, by almost being two decades old and stored in a file, brings with it the imaginative burden of these scents.

Does this make any sense?

I just feel satisfied that my first poem was with my mother in mind. The scents she has transmitted throughout my life are conveyed in those stanzas. They may not have the metrics or the rhythm, but they are loaded with all the scents my mother has been capable of producing for me.