Scents of Memory

One whiff of the perfume

my Mother always wore

triggers a cascade of scent memories;

homemade vegetable soup,

rich with garden bounty,

citrus blossoms,

spring  and autumn,

the aroma in every cervice of the city,

pecan pralines

and, of course, coffee.

Every spring, the sweet/spicy scent of stocks

my Mother's birthday flower choice

and crisp homemade dill pickles,

Bacon gravy and fresh biscuits,

wet dogs and line dried sheets,

the ozone storm smell

in monsoon season.

Pit roasted javelina,

orange marmelade bubbling on the stove;

fresh-caught trout

frying in an iron skillet,

over a campfire.

pine needle duff from the forest floor.

Old books, (we had thousands,)

to read and explore.

The lime and stone smell of fresh concrete,

 carefully puddled to smooth the top.

grapefruit by the bushel

to juice and freeze

until every room smelled of citrus.

 

The last scent of my Mother memories

is very sorrowful to recall,

gardenias, garden plucked,

by friends who loved her,

mounded 'round her funeral urn.

 

My Mother left me precious things;

and scents of memory.

Author's Note

My Mother always wore White Shoulders

Reviews

[Bubo]

Oh the imagery is so beautiful, all those scents and tastes, smells.........and a Mother who seems as beautiful as your words, to smell her and conjure up such an image is just lovely.......

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

Geralyn~ this is exquisite~ your imagery creates the aura of experience~ fills this reader with scents of memories in turn~ gorgeous~