Smells

I remember the smell of waking up on Saturday mornings in my house. The aroma would hit me as soon as my foot touched the last step at the bottom of the staircase into the dining room. Sitting in his dining room chair with its sagging cushion would be my dad, back from his morning run in the Marin Headlands. That was back when he ran marathons. Sometimes he still does, even though it's bad for his knees. Anyway, he'd sit there and read the newspaper and maybe eat some junk food as a reward. And the room would smell like his sweat. Not like the body odor of the armpit in need of deodorant squeezing against you on the bus. Rather, it was the smell of sweat that has gone cold and permeated into one's clothes.

Usually (always, actually) it was just me and him, awake that early in the morning. I'm pretty sure I prided myself on being the second earliest waker in the family, even if it was only to watch morning cartoons instead of train for a marathon. I liked the tense stillness in the air of those Saturday mornings, like the house was holding its breath, about to sigh. My dad sat there, seemingly at rest, and yet I knew where he had come from and how the house would start buzzing again once my sisters and my mom woke up.

But for the time being, it was still quiet in the house, so I would make my bowl of cheerios and head towards the living room TV, without saying anything.

This morning I went running with my roommates. When we came back, I got a whiff of that same sweat smell, and was immediately transported back to this memory.