#55 – Conclusion

Some of the bluster of winter was giving way to the early hints of spring.  The cemetery smelled of flowers of every kind, but it was dominated by lilies and gardenias, and of course freshly tilled soil.  Together, we searched for the headstone, which I’d refused to visit until now.

It was a simple headstone which was chosen by Mother.  It’s date was November 14th, 2010, more than  a year ago. She had made all of the arrangements before the illness had completely taken hold of her.  I laid the roses over her grave; roses like the ones Father used to bring her.  I pulled two bottles from my coat pocket: #2 and #3, Mother and Father.  I uncorked them both, sniffed them, and poured them together onto the grave.

The smell rose up to meet my nose.  All of the old memories rushed into my head.  A Christmas morning, Mother and Father dancing, a ballgame, Mother’s kisses, afternoon tea, dusty albums, and birthdays when Mother would make me a strawberry cake.  Memories of the past.  In that moment, I knew that I would always have them.  And I knew that there was more than just the memories.  I had the sense that life would go on without Mother.

Marie took my hand as I wept quietly.  I’d mourned her death in small ways over the last year.   Every time one of my profiles from The Gardens died, Mother died a little bit as well.  It’s such a quiet thing, death.  Perhaps it was so quiet that I’d let its reality escape me altogether.

She died in her bed with only me present.  I alone had cared for her.  I did not watch as they carried her body away.  I didn’t say a word.  I just waited in her room until all was quiet.  That night, I went to my basement and created Mother’s scent.  I made it my duty to make sure her scent never left her room or my life.

We had been a team, she and I.  After Father died of a heart attack when I was four, we learned to comfort each other in little ways, with cookies and tea, with fragrance, with music.  She was my entire life.  She was the only one who understood.  When the world rejected me, she loved me.  That’s all I had; smells and Mother.

Afterward, we drove back to Marie’s house for tea.  I found the cat clocks unnerving, but the smell of the kitchen was satisfying–fresh baked chocolate chip cookies and tea.

Toonces, the cat, seemed to have taken a liking to me.  He was rubbing himself against my leg.  I’m given to understand that this is a way that the feline species expresses their ownership over another creature, but I prefer to think of it as affection.

Marie was sitting across from me at the Formica kitchen table.  It is not the same grade of Formica that is  used in the post office, but it does bear some similarities. Note #34549 What is the difference in composition between industrial grade Formica and Marie’s kitchen table?

She was wearing her mother’s green cardigan and she looked quite fetching with a red bow in her hair.  I’ve always been fond of red bows.

“How was your day at work?” she asked.

“I’ve introduced a new fragrance for testing.  It’s something I’ve been working on for a long time, and I think I’ve finally gotten it right.”

“That’s wonderful!  What is it?”

“Here,” I say, pulling out a bottle of #14. “Try it out.”

She uncorked the bottle and took a sniff.  She blushed and smiled.

“Is this what I think it is?”

“Spearmint, whiff of diesel, whiff of pipe tobacco, a dash of #374 (you), and a dash of #5 (me).  I’m calling it First Kiss.  A first kiss is impossible to create without the human element. ”

“A kiss is nothing without people, or without love. I’m so glad you’ve figured it out.  It makes my head spin to smell it.”

“Jim, there’s something I’ve been meaning to show you,” she said, getting up from her chair.

Her shoes thudded lightly on the old wooden floor as she walked into the living room.  I heard the faint sound of a record player needle dropping onto a record.  The familiar strains of “The Days of Wine and Roses” flowed into the kitchen.  When she returned, she was carrying a picture frame.  The picture looked like it must have been thirty years old.  It was of a girl with her mother.  The girl was wearing a red polka dotted dress, black leather patent shoes, and white ruffly socks, and a red ribbon in her hair.  I recognized her immediately.  It was the girl from the post office.

“I don’t understand.  Where do you get this picture?”  I asked, utterly confused.

“Jim, that woman is my mother, and the little girl is me.”

“It’s you?  You’re the little girl from the post office?  How long have you known?”

“Since the day you first took me there.  The smell brought that day back to me.  I remembered the little boy and how I’d smiled at him.  I knew it must have been you.”

She took my hand and led me into the living room.  She placed one of my hands on her waist and the other in her hand and she stepped in close to me.  We began to step to the music while I inhaled her beauty.

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11 comments

    1. I’m so glad you liked it. I’m working on another project . I have it all mapped out and the first chapter written, but I’m having a hard time finding the time to write it. It’s a much more ambitious project…on the scale of a serial novel.

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