Part Two, 2006
After graduating from college, Hana worked as a medical interpreter, then waiting tables at Chez Panisse restaurant. But she grew restless, and last month left for Spain via Chile, Argentina, and New York. In preparation, she sold or gave away most of her belongings: the car to Karina, guitar to Pablo, bookcase to Ricardo, and all the white wait-staff shirts to Sarah. I was left with five garbage bags of shoes and clothes to offer over to her friends. But I got first pick of Hana’s many sloughed skins.
I hung on to a few items, not because they fit with the color or style of my wardrobe, but because of their recent nearness to my daughter and all her personal scents: perfume, deodorant, body lotion, hair conditioner, and sweat. Like an exotic sachet, the three tees and two tank tops went directly into my drawer. When I wore each piece I caught whiffs of Hana. At the end of the day, I’d bury my face in the garment and take a long, deep, sad inhalation. Sad, because after washing, they’d be plain old shirts again.
Today I donned one of the laundered tees, trying to be content with just the Hana look, but delighted that a faint Hana smell lingered, too. It comforted and reminded me that no matter how far she roams, she’ll always fill up my senses.
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