I always long for that scent. The scent of my father’s body. A fragrance following a rhythmic pattern. In the morning, it’s like the scent of jasmine. During the day, it carries the aroma of roses. If it’s night, the fragrance turns to ylang-ylang. I don’t know why that scent cycles within my father’s body. When I was little, those aromas brought me peace and comfort. Even losing that scent for just a day would make me cry endlessly.
Now, my father’s life has entered a stage we call senility. He has forgotten everything about me, his only child, his cherished one. I became speechless since my father lost his memory of me. Yet, as far as I remember, his days were always spent with me, welcoming the morning, embracing the noon, leaning on the evening, and enjoying the night.
I learn to cherish. This time, I take care of my father. I organize my daily routine like a duty roster. Waking up, checking on my father in his room. Is he still peacefully asleep? For me, my father’s body scent still lingers, like the scents of jasmine, roses, and ylang-ylang.
Only silence now accompanies my raised house. A house that used to be lively at sunset, on the raised platform beneath the cherry tree. I, who was still a child back then, always asked my father to pick the ripe red cherries. I vividly remember how hard my father climbed the cherry tree to reach the red cherries I desired.
I chose my father because I still remember the sacrifices.
Countless sacrifices that I witnessed firsthand—providing food, education, Quranic studies, and all the little needs, all taken care of by my father. Especially since my mother left. My wife, Biah, and our only child left me. I was considered too childish and never became a husband and father to my wife and child. I could only be a son to my father.
Can’t my brother inhale the most fragrant scent from Biah’s body? Is it a sin that I chose my father as my form of devotion? Remaining loyal to my father’s scent that has long been ingrained compared to my wife’s scent?
My wife and I once discussed this olfactory issue with a mental health expert. I was advised to learn to appreciate the scent of other flowers besides jasmine, roses, and ylang-ylang. I was asked to imagine that the scent of musk is present in my wife. Do I need to give that answer?
I am not alone, actually. I have an older brother and an older sister. They seem to have forgotten that they still have a father. A father who provided hectares of land for their future success Achieving the best higher education. Owning a residence in an elite neighborhood. I find myself in an unfortunate situation. As the youngest child, my father’s wealth has been depleted for my older brother and sister. I am in a less fortunate time. My father’s rubber plantation, which was hectares in size, also faced a free fall in market prices.
Yet, I enjoy my situation. For me, the most important thing is being with my father every day. Being able to enjoy the scents of jasmine, roses, and ylang-ylang My father’s senility brings about nonsensical languages. Yet, strangely, there is no hint of annoyance when my father is in that senile state. He forgets to come home from the mosque. He forgets when he’s about to bathe. He forgets when he’s about to eat. He forgets when putting on clothes.
Currently, my father’s senility makes my solitude enjoyable since Biah and my child left. Perhaps my father’s body scent is the aroma that always makes me calm. In the midst of enjoying my father’s body scent, I plant jasmine, roses, and ylang-ylang in my yard.
Why do you plant these flowers?,” Bang Johan, my neighbor next door, asked, observing my new habit of planting jasmine, roses, and ylang-ylang.
“So that I can always be close to my father,” I explained briefly
“I don’t like ylang-ylang flowers; at night, they smell like a graveyard,” Bang Johan stated.
I don’t care. These flowers are planted in my yard. What matters is that I’m happy. Since I planted these flowers, there’s a new habit for my father: sitting on the bamboo daybed in front of the house. Watching me tend to these flowers. Over time, as the flowers bloom, my father sits there more often. He even gets close to these flowers. Somehow, in the morning, my father is among the cluster of jasmine. In the evening, his scent approaches the cluster of roses. At night, my father lingers by the trunk of the ylang-ylang tree that fills my yard. I enjoy these scents with a smile that only I can understand. My father does the same. Perhaps the flowers I planted provide therapy, unlocking memories of his past.
I am caught in between time. Aware time and dreamy time. That morning, the flowers I planted were uprooted. Shattered. I just stood there, watching my father’s rage. I was stunned seeing the destruction of the flowers I planted with all my heart to remind my father of memories. My father was hysterical seeing that. He shouted as loudly as he could.
“What have you done to these flowers!” My father ran, holding the scattered jasmine, roses, and ylang-ylang, into his room.
“Could it be Bang Johan?” I muttered.
All day, my father didn’t come out of his room until the night. The scent cycle continued. Ylang-ylang wafted from the room.
“Father, come out. Let’s eat. It’s night.”
Still no answer. Let my father rest. Until the morning, the scent of jasmine permeated. The evening had the aroma of roses, but my father still didn’t come out. I called repeatedly. I banged on the door of the room.
“Father!!!”
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Bambang Kariyawan Ys., a teacher. WA: 08117595971