The Scent of Memory by Julia Baran

Today's decision to go to the dacha

was unexpected, but long-awaited. Years had passed since I last stepped on this land - I was thirteen then, and summer felt endless.

The road ran through childhood-familiar potholes, each bump bringing back fragments of the past. When we turned onto the dirt path leading to the property, a faint yet familiar scent enveloped me - the sweet smell of fresh strawberries drifting from the left, where my grandmother’s garden once was. Even through the closed car window, it seeped in, mixing with the freshness of cut grass and the dampness of the old shed near the entrance.

That smell carried me back to memories: my grandmother, with her soft gray braids, stepping onto the porch, squinting in the sunlight. Her voice echoes in my memory - warm, familiar: “Anyunyu, it’s time to pick strawberries! Grab the bucket!”

In an instant, I was running down the sun-warmed path, looking for the old orange bucket in the shed. The musty smell of damp wood inside was both familiar and comforting, as it was where Artur and I kept all our childhood “treasures.” Finding the bucket, I dashed to the strawberry beds. The earth was warm, and the red berries, large and juicy, peeked from under green leaves like little rubies. Each one I picked had its own unique sweet flavour, slightly tart, with a hint of sourness. I couldn’t resist and, as I filled the bucket, kept popping them into my mouth.

My favourite place at the dacha was our treehouse. It was just a few planks nailed to the branches of an old apple tree, but for Artur and me, it was an entire world. From there, we could see the neighbouring gardens, the green grass that smelled fresh, and sometimes a wisp of smoke from a nearby fire. We could sit there for hours, discussing our “important” childhood matters. I remember one day when Grandma called up to us: “Anyunyu, Arturchyk, come eat! The borscht is getting cold!” But we didn’t want to come down. We felt so happy in our little house on the tree, in our small world where adult rules didn’t apply.

The car stopped, and the jolt brought me back to reality. The sun was shining just as brightly as back then, the strawberry scent was fading, but the smells of grass and the old shed were stronger than ever. I stepped out of the car, onto familiar ground - and felt a smile form on my lips, tears welling in my eyes. Such a simple smell, and yet it carried me through the years, letting me relive those moments of pure happiness. I felt a sharp pain, knowing Grandma was gone, and no one would call us to eat borscht under the apple tree again. But at the same time, that memory filled me with a strange sense of warmth and gratitude.

I walked around the house, looking at the familiar windows, the old porch where Grandma once sat. The strawberry beds weren’t as well-kept as before, but here and there, a few red berries still glowed. I picked the ripest one and brought it to my nose. That same sweet, tart aroma. It wasn’t as juicy as in my childhood, but the taste... the taste was the taste of the past. I ran my hand over the rough walls of the old shed - the damp, woody smell wrapped around me, as if our “treasures” were still waiting inside. I approached the apple tree, where our treehouse once was. The planks were gone, only a few nails remained sticking out of the bark. The dacha had changed, just like I had. But it remained a place where the dearest memories live - every scent, every detail, reminding me of who I once was.