Seven Fragrances
1. Dad’s pipe tobacco. All six feet 200 pounds of him watching Gunsmoke on Saturday night, he couldn’t hit while he puffed.
2. Ivory soap. The bar that floated. After my bath, I was 99.44% pure. My impurities left a ring around the tub.
3. Pine-Sol. Mother cared enough about me to mop the floor I walked on.
4. Chalk dust. It collected in the tray beneath the blackboard in high school Spanish class and sifted into the air, as I passed notes to the boy two seats over.
5. Newsprint ink. I proofed the copy for want ads, ferreted out typos from freshly printed pages. A solitary summer job in the basement of the News-Press, my hermit sanctuary.
6. Shalimar. A dab behind each ear just before dates with men who were always short and skinny.
7. Eucalyptus trees. At the Vedanta Society in Santa Barbara. My sibs and I meditated at vespers, after laying Dad to rest. Eucalyptus blessed our prayers.
