Saturday, January 19, 2019
No Tooth Faerie, no Santa, no Heaven at all. But oh Faerie of good smells, I believe. I believe.
I believe in you.
I did not call for you last week when my co-worker's son spontaneously vomited just behind the front desk of the library. Surely you were too busy wandering in the fields of new strawberries.
I did not call for you earlier this week when someone peed on the teen book shelves. What if you were cavorting in a grove of blossoming lemon trees?
I did not call for you yesterday when something backed up in the men's entryway bathroom and wafted out. How dare I interrupt your sacred Winter Dance of the Cold Pine Trees?
But today a person came to the library and SHE DID NOT SMELL GOOD!
She smelled like she had not washed in many months.
She did not smell of sweat, or vomit, or pee, or poo.
She smelled of death.
I do not like that smell. It makes me gag
I can live with pee.
I can soldier through poo.
I can endure vomit.
But I could not take this smell of death.
It lingered. It swallowed up sections of the library until long after she left, and she moved around a lot! It settled like a dark green miasma. It fogged my precious library. It was horrible.
So I call on you, gracious Faerie of Good Smells. Hear my cry.
Turraloo ra loo ra O la ray!
Leave your fields of almond blossoms! (please)
Leave your gardens of yellow roses. (if you would be so kind)
Leave your French Chestnut Forest in the rain. (help!)
We need you.
We believe, we believe, we believe!
Please, let believing make it so.