A women’s perfume sample, dropped thoughtlessly in a shopping bag some time in the mid-90s.
It has never been opened; but the ghost of it, the palest traces that cling to its glass and card, are the smell of my mother’s hair from childhood. My head on her neck, my face in her freshly-washed curls, her arms around me, braced against the world.
It has never been opened; but the ghost of it, the palest traces that cling to its glass and card, are the smell of my mother’s hair from childhood. My head on her neck, my face in her freshly-washed curls, her arms around me, braced against the world.
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