I remember...

Clinging to my mother's waist like my life depended on it. She was my rock, my constant-my only priority to not be left behind. I remember feeling so heartbroken after that last kiss, the final embrace that I'd give an arm, maybe even a leg, for just another couple minutes nuzzled in her warmth. The smell of her perfume was unmistakable. I didn't grasp the concept of perfume back then, it seemed such a natural part of her essence. Sweat mixed with a slight hint of perspiration. Every smell is an experience, we learn to judge them, assign them meaning as we go along. Her sweat & perfume mingled, was more pungent, it felt real, left me grounded and gave me comfort. So we established a routine: I'd cry and beg her not to go. She'd wiggle herself free of my clenched, desperate little hands, peeling off finger by finger. And she'd placate me with a scarf, a jacket, a sweater that I'd bury my face in and close my eyes, taking deep breaths. The tears would dry, my heartbeat eventually softening to a low thud in my ears. I'd sniffle the snot back in and learn how to calm myself, how to be alone.
In pediatrics we learn separation anxiety is normal behavior, evolutionarily sound up until a certain age at least. But what interests me more is the fear of being alone, do we ever really grow out of that? Master it and go without our safety scarf? I remember the day when my mother was ill prepared; no scarf, no jacket, no sweater. She gave me her earring, tried to get away before I could notice the hard, cold metal. The utter lack of the sweet smell that could soothe me. For all its beauty, an earring cannot compare.