Scent in the Wind

Feeling the soft breeze announcing, just barely, the beginning breaths of Spring, Beatrice walked into her courtyard, wishing for the first blossoms to bring their scents into her surrounding evergreen garden. In Brazil, Spring first arrives in late September, especially in the higher elevations; although, she is only a few hours north of the warmer year-around Sao Palo.

Clutching a letter to her heart, Beatrice thought about how the Southern Hemisphere has the seasons flipped. Her American sister in the Midwest was enjoying the hot end to Summer now, with plants and flowers burning dry in the sun as a prelude to Autumn.

Crying in her heart, with only a few visible tears falling onto her cheeks, Beatrice wished for the warm embrace of her American friends, especially Carolina, whose letter had touched her soul.

For more than 20 years, they had chosen each other as sisters, after Beatrice and her husband traveled to the Northern Hemisphere for two years. "Hmmmm," thought Carolina, was it that long ago? Instead of studies and exams, which was their reason for being at a huge American mid-western university, they focused on speaking English and raising children like the plants and flowers they both delighted to grow. Beatrice talked about planting sustainable flowers, herbs, and gardens to support bee populations. She gave Carolina ideas. What did her husband study?

And they became chosen family. Beatrice’s letter from Carolina affirmed this, even after all this time had passed and distance had stretched their bonds.

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“My Dearest Brazilian Sister Beatrice,

Do you remember how you used to make me chicken soup when I was losing my voice teaching and coming down with some sort of head cold? You warmed my heart with your care. I need to do that for you now. Well, I wish I could make you soup, in person, but my letter will have to suffice.”

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Carolina was matter-of-fact like that, what Beatrice thought of as American, but with a softer side too that she protected and barely showed to anyone. She was a divorced, single mom, both of which in this area of the States were always viewed negatively, no matter she had escaped an abusive man. Beatrice saw that Carolina and her son were pretty much alone, accounting for Carolina’s American bravado, probably as an act of survival.

Beatrice, her husband, and their young daughter had left a large extended family in Brazil—almost too many to count, at least for Carolina. So, it was an easy solution to loneliness to choose a Northern Hemisphere sister. In actuality, Beatrice really missed her older sister, as a life-long sisterhood is a beautiful experience.

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“Do you remember the wild pear trees that line the edges of South River Road? The bees still love them in early Spring, as they are often the first to flower while there is still an early March chill in the air.

Then as the heat of Summer starts to climb, the fruit is nearly ripe, and we would go on a June pear-picking expedition before the mosquitos got too drawn to their sweet scent. But it is the pear trees in July and August that I want us to think about right now, and why I wrote you this letter.”

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Beatrice smiled at the words. Carolina often spoke, thought, wrote, lived, and analyzed her world through stories and metaphor. There was always something literal that would become a life-lesson, maybe even become wisdom words that enveloped her readers in a warm embrace. That encircling is what Beatrice felt now, just like she was there, in person, with her American chosen sister. And she needed this.

Tears began to fall at a more predictable pace down Beatrice’s cheeks.

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“When the heat is on, the pears ripen and fall. They get mushy quickly in the hot sun but draw in so many tiny animals and insects for the anticipated feast. We are like a pair of pears, you and I!

Stoic, mature, yes, but after we feel the heat and maybe even fall apart for a while, we regrow with the refreshing vigor of a new Spring ahead.

I’m not so sure about attracting insects, but we both sure do have the animals, don’t we, with our respective dogs and cats?”

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Indeed, Beatrice's daughter had become a veterinarian, so there were even more animals now. She smiled at Carolina's attempt toward levity.

With a little bit of welcome composure, Beatrice read further.

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“So, in our August season of pear trees, we are both feeling the sadness, the loss of your cherished sister. I cried when you posted the news because I knew you were crying too. You said you could not talk about it, or anything else, and would let me know when to call. I felt your heartbroken state, as if we were both fallen pears splitting open upon hitting the grass beneath the tree.”

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Beatrice was fully sobbing now. She needed to let it out.

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“But let us remember that as the pears fall, their scent rises sweet, light, and hopeful upon the wind. Let me blow this pear scent to you so that in every breeze you feel my comfort and care for you and your cherished sister. With every breath, perhaps only you can sense the subtle, sweet, pear scent, but it will find you. I know. Remember how you used to always call me your American Sorceress?”

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Isabel did remember that as part of Carolina's magical charm, a bold, educated know-it-all trying-to-make-it in the academic world.

Wiping away tears with a chuckle this time, Isabel kept reading.

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“Estimada…I looked up the Portuguese for cherished. You are Estimada to me and your sister is Estimada to us both, but for you, in special, life-long ways. We can add new experiences to our memories of her. I feel this. I am here for you.

Love Always from your American Sister,

Carolina”

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Fully anointing her garden courtyard with her tears as she crumbled to her knees thinking that she could add to the memories of her cherished sister too soon gone, Beatrice wept aloud. Clasping Carolina’s letter tightly now so as not to lose its magic, Beatrice drew in a deep breath. She sensed a sweetness upon the breeze, a scent of white flowers opening in the deepest of dusk and rising into the wind. It was the scent of pear trees, of comfort, of hope.

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Dedicated to the memory of your sister. The two of us stand for our fallen Estimada.

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This story is interconnected to my previous three, with their story links copied below. Please read, like, heart, tip, and subscribe as demonstration of your appreciation for multiple narrative points of view and broader world, even other-world, perspectives. Merci, toujour!, Cynthia

A foreshadowed reference to this current story most strongly appears here:

The series began with:

And with its penultimate standing, one of my most unique writings:

Here's to words, care, photography, and fictionalized life writing. Enjoy!

P. S. ...and with a note about my photographic techniques: