Monday, May 16, 2016

Remembering Pink, Shalimar and A Dandelion

Stepping into an elevator when I was sixteen, the gentle drift of a fragrance that was not like my mother's Jean Nate bath splash, not her baby pink powder puffs of Calgon Talcum, not even like the almost-gone drops of her Joy perfume startled me. Feeling like one of the downtrodden girls in a 19th century novel asking for an immense favor, I closed my eyes to breathe the most wonderful scent, asking what it was.


Sometimes flowers do that, or a pink ceiling, even a dandelion popping though the hardness of concrete. Music, dreams. Memories.


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