Recently, my colleague Jen’s son said to her, “Mom, sometimes when you are not home and I miss you, I stand in your closet and smell your clothes. Don’t be mad.” Jen of course wasn’t mad, nor even confused about her son’s behavior, and as she continued to tell me the story, it dawned on me that Valentine’s Day is all about the senses.

Love’s taste can be a funny thing. I remember falling off my bike when I was a little girl, skinning my knee and crying. As salty tears poured down my small face into my mouth, my dad picked me up, wiped my tears, hugged me hard and said, “Pookie Pie, salt water is made for the sea, not your face. It will be okay.”

The phrase was said with such conviction, the embrace so tight that I stopped crying. Even today when I cry, the taste of my own tears triggers the memory of the comforting words and embrace of my dad.

Touch translates various messages. When my nephew Ellis hugs me, usually after I have treated him to a slice at Rocco’s Pizza, I can’t believe how much joy and love my heart carries for him. On the other hand, when my boyfriend Marlon hugs and kisses me, my head fitting precisely in the crook of his neck and my face perfectly in the palm of his hand, his embrace creates a different, yet complete and perfect, cocoon of love.

A certain smell reminds me of my mom. If a woman walks past me wearing mom’s signature perfume, a bittersweet melancholy crashes over me like a wave on a beach in Katama. In a flash, the smell makes me an unwilling time traveler, forced to remember not only the love my mom had for her family, but also the inconsolable feeling of loss that came with her passing.

Smell also reminds me of my sister’s love. When I smell brownies I picture her making brownie cakes when we were kids in our Easy Bake Oven. With a large smile on her chubby face, she would proudly present me with her half-eaten and not fully baked masterpiece, and say, “I love you, Shasha.”

Similarly, the smell of the sea that greets me as I ride the ferry back to my Vineyard home evokes the love I have for the Island and the Islanders who have been sewn into the fabric of my family tree.

Sharon-Frances Moore is a seasonal resident of Vineyard Haven.