I breathe deeply
and familiar fragrance fills the air,
not quite as vibrant now,
but lovely all the same.
Suddenly,
an unexpected spice,
a startling zest,
grabs hold of softer blooms
and me,
defenseless.
The fiery assault silently explodes
and just as rapidly
turns tired.
Fragile powder-hints escape,
like sweetly scented ash.
I dab a small bit more.
The bouquet struggles.
Delicate roses still are there
and cooling citrus,
vulnerable, aging hyacinth,
and gentle chamomile.
More than five years old,
this perfume–
how well I understand–
won’t last forever,
though violet reminders and amber warmth
caress me still.
Steeped in her loss,
my precious mother’s fragrance
mourns for her.
