I still detect a whiff of you
in the gold and brown recliner,
the tweed chair to be hauled
to a thrift shop tomorrow
where a stranger’s scent
will replace yours.
It took twenty-four years
of allergy shots to restore
my sense of smell and today,
amidst a monsoon of emotions,
gratitude prevails.
I bury my head in the recliner
the way I once tucked my head
in your shoulder. I did not know
how much I would miss your aroma,
part Estée Lauder, part lotion
you squirted on your hands
before rubbing on mine,
part scent that is
uniquely you.
Already your smell
is fading from the upholstery,
but not the memory
of the early morning light
slicing through the blinds
as you slept in your recliner.
I see your eyes, still groggy, opening,
your face breaking into smile
when you hear my voice,
Hello, my Mum,
your arms reaching out
to enfold me against your body,
your fragrance as much a part
of our daily ritual as your response,
Hello, my Mary.
The birthday sign was the last item to be removed from Mother’s apartment. We were so excited about changing the 98 to 99! We would have done so, with great fanfare, this last week in October. Happy Birthday, Mother! And your twin, John Dennis!
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