Lavender
The scent still clings, somewhere. I'm sure it's synthetic; some jarring in my olfactory bulb that confuses my brain and makes me think I can smell her. My memories are hazy and piecemeal, like a synaesthetic collage. The curve of her hair, the warm softness of her hand, enveloping mine. The rich sound of her voice, bestowing a safety and security that I've never really felt since. But mostly, the smell.

Her perfume was Yardley English Lavender. She wore it subtly, so the smell mixed with her own aromas: vanilla, cocoa butter, Imperial Leather soap. It was a smell that filled my nostrils as I hugged her, when I'd skinned my knee, when I'd broken my toy car, when I'd eaten too much jelly and ice cream and felt sick. It was a smell that I'll forever associate with comfort, with complete love and protection.

The smell lingered for a while after she'd gone. I think my father was loathe to clean too much, lest he completely washed her away. His need for it was probably as great as mine. In time, we healed, albeit with scars: invisible to the naked eye, but very real, and very tender when prodded in the right way. I kept a bottle of the perfume, and every year, on her birthday, I spray just a little bit onto my pillow, and cuddle it, pushing my tear-streaked face into the warm softness, just like I used to as a child.

Sometimes I catch the tiniest amount of it on the breeze. Perhaps someone wears something with a hint of lavender; maybe someone has a bush in their garden. For a second, I'm caught up in the swirling vortex - the curve of her hair, the warm softness of her hand, enveloping mine. The rich sound of her voice, bestowing a safety and security that I've never really felt since.

I might not remember you too well, Mum, but I miss you.
(SalariosDecentes was under the radar on, Tue 16 May 2017, 8:33, 1 reply)

Well that's me with a boner.

(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Tue 16 May 2017, 12:06, closed)