I love the smell of books.
It’s a bit of an obsession, really, and one I’ve had for as far back as I can remember. It doesn’t end at books, either. Magazines, newspapers, pamphlets, day planners, catalogs, you name it. If it finds its way into my hands, I’m compelled to give it a good long sniff before even reading a word! There’s something about it, the musty, inky, papery aroma that just begs to be inhaled. My husband teases me about it all the time, joking that I enjoy the stench of gross, nasty book mites. Whatever it is, I don’t care. It makes me feel happy and tingly inside and we could all use a little more of that in our lives. It calms and soothes me, and little by little the harsh realities of life simply fade away as I lose myself in a whole new world. That’s the beauty of a good story (and a good sniff!).
I suppose my infatuation with what I’ll call “book bouquet” is a side effect of my love for words and writing and reading—all things I’ve cherished since I was a child. My mom even commented on this recently: that from a young age, I always had my nose in a book. I’ve been trying to instill this passion for the written word in my daughter, too. She’s often found me in the throes of book sniffing and—much to my surprise and pleasure—always asks for a turn. It started as a joke between us but now it’s become part of our bedtime ritual. On my reading nights with her (my husband and I trade off), we close our eyes, bury our faces in whatever book she’s picked out, and inhale, exhale. It always, always ends in smiles and laughter! 😊 I’d be lying if I said my heart and soul didn’t swell with happiness and pride every time. That’s a memory I’m going to hold onto forever.
It sounds so silly, but I find it amazing that something so simple and pure can have the most profound effect on your life. Most of the time it feels like my daughter and I are on separate pages, which never ceases to amaze me considering she’s only 5 (she’ll be 6 in January). I know it’s because she’s exactly like me—she’s precocious, sassy, and honest to a fault. And oftentimes I’m hard on her because of that. But in moments like these, we are one, bonded in tradition through the book in our hands and the love in our hearts.
My whole world is steeped in traditions, and I want them to live on in my children. My daughter may not become the book or word fiend that I am (although hopefully she will!), but she most certainly will remember the countless nights of affection, joy, and laughter we shared each time we cracked open a book and stuffed our noses inside. And maybe one day she’ll instill this fascination with book bouquet, this adoration of books, this passion for the written word in her own children, my grandchildren. Or who knows, maybe she’ll grow up and write a book or start her own blog. Now wouldn’t that be something?
A legacy. Like mother, like daughter.
And all thanks to the special bond we shared over the smell of a good book.