My Nana’s smell
She saw a century breathe and die,
the died herself. Photos are a pale reminder,
but scent’s memory brings her back to life.
On her lap, my nostrils burned with her bath oil,
her pungent violet lotion. She smelled old;
she’d seen a century breathe and die.
Once she was head laundress. Soap and lye
seeped through the years to lie dormant in her pores.
Those scents still bring her back to life.
A child, my skin held water, wind, and light.
I thought age carried smell; I’d bear it, too,
when I’d seen a century breathe and die.
What fragrances did she wear as a child:
flower petals, baking bread, earth, or summer sweat?
Did those scents’ memory send her back in life?
But freshness was overcome by time,
splashed with soaps I’ll smell for years.
She saw a century breathe and die.
Now scent’s memory brings her back to life.