There's rosemary, that's for remembrance
Walter Crane, Flowers from Shakespeare's Garden
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Other women wear the same perfume as you
That floral but not overpowering scent
That musky, linger in the air smell of you
That can throw me in a time portal
Back, back, about three years now,
To the Barberton house
Or the bags that drip with radiation
It’s at its worse when I’m in Farmers
Because that’s where all those women go
Middle aged with money in their pockets
Buying the clothes you once brought
While mum sticks with the perfumes
Avoiding unsuccessfully
The ones that smell like you
I have to press myself back against the jewellery cabinets
Both to let people down the aisle
And to dodge the thing I can’t see
Mouth a small scowl, eyes heavy-lidded
An attempt to look as nonchalant as a teenager
Still successful in looking like a teenager
Because of my twelve year old face that hasn’t changed in years
Lord, I do not want to think about how yours has changed so.
Now, in Farmers, or in Ezibuy, or on the damn street
Your ghost passes by in the form of another woman
A grandmother to her own grandchildren, perhaps
Or just a possession of your own choosing
Hoping to lure me to the other side
When I turn too quickly to look back at them
Snapping my neck for hope that it’s you
Sometimes, on a whim, I think about reaching out
To grab the solid ghost made up of memories
Wrapped up in a smell
Wondering, on a whim, whether they’ll reach back too
To grab the solid granddaughter made up of wishes
Wrapped up in her
In you
If I grabbed them
Pulled them back
Hugged them tight
Cried
Screamed
Stayed silent
Just sighed
Would they turn into you?
A different kind of resurrection
That hasn’t happened in novels before
One based on that perfume
The one I don’t even have a name to
All in an effort to give you a second chance
At trying life out again
Where you can go skydiving for your sixtieth
Or live in your new house for longer than a month
Where you could have waved me goodbye at the airport
When I finally started the journey we had been talking about
A life where you can watch your daughter and I
Walk across a stage for ten seconds
For a piece of paper you helped me achieve
For a moment, that particular moment
When your perfume is all I can smell
I think about how fifty-seven was too young
How I have friends who have parents
Older than you
Who are still here to this day
When you’re not
But too soon in my musings
They have disappeared
They are gone
And so is my chance
And so are the memories
And so is the perfume
And so are you
And so are you
You
You were gone too soon
-Perfume, or, It's Been Seven Years Since My Nan Died So Here Is A Poem I Wrote When I Was Younger That Highlights How The Grief Never Leaves Me, It Lingers Even After I've Forgotten How Her Hand Used To Feel In Mine
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