![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scent memory
Apr. 11th, 2002 02:35 pmSummer vacations in the Philippines ran from April to June, coinciding with the highest temperatures that the archipelago would endure all year. Sometimes my parents would take us up to Baguio, the northern province where hills and elevation gave some relief against the muggy heat. If we were lucky though, we'd fly out to California for three months at my grandparents' house. Packing for these trips, I'd dream of the typical things a seven year old might wish for: American cartoons, shiny new toys, afternoons reading comics in the sun. Most of all, though, I'd dream about breathing clean air.
I looked forward to those first steps we'd take out of SFO, getting out of the controlled environment of the airport, and inhaling the smell of trees, of sea and of springtime America. It was all so different from a Manila buried underneath diesel fumes, burning trash and heavy industry. The air at home literally scarred me, inflicting a chronic barrage of bronchitis and asthma that stunted cells in my lungs and tethered my childhood to oxygen tanks in antiseptic hospital rooms.
I don't think of it that often, save for breezy afternoons like today, when the scent of blossoming trees makes me thank my parents for moving here.
I looked forward to those first steps we'd take out of SFO, getting out of the controlled environment of the airport, and inhaling the smell of trees, of sea and of springtime America. It was all so different from a Manila buried underneath diesel fumes, burning trash and heavy industry. The air at home literally scarred me, inflicting a chronic barrage of bronchitis and asthma that stunted cells in my lungs and tethered my childhood to oxygen tanks in antiseptic hospital rooms.
I don't think of it that often, save for breezy afternoons like today, when the scent of blossoming trees makes me thank my parents for moving here.
