sat above the toilet in her black-
and-white tile bathroom with
its monogrammed hand towels.
Today, the bottle shines on my dresser.
I say good morning to Grandma
as I fetch clothes for the day.
Sometimes
I lift the orange flower lid
from the golden bottle
Mariella Burani etched
in black across its front,
I hold it up to my nose
smell the tang
mixed with baby powder
and cry—
I have released
Grandma’s spirit. She is here,
deep in the room with me.
I imagine her scenting herself
for a night out on the town
with my grandfather
her dressing drink of Dewar’s
and water helping her slide
into her party skin.
