Her fragrance lingered long after she’d left, permeating the bed-linen, strongest in her half-empty wardrobe.
I located the source, a black glass bottle, gold-capped, the neck encircled by a pink satin ribbon grown greasy with careless use. Months later, I loaded the tiny wand within and transferred the essence of my mother to my curtains, pillows and towels, contentedly refreshing her presence.
My father beat me, before crushing me, sobbing, to his chest.
The half-empty bottle is sealed in cling-film, stored in a canister, high on a shelf.
I could re-create her at will.
But that will is long gone.
Anyone remember this? Long before my time, of course. 😉 This week’s prompt comes from an old writing colleague of mine, Nick Allen. Thanks, Nick, beautiful collection. Our Friday Fictioneers hostess, Rochelle, is also a collector… of 100 word stories. Click on blue linky-tool to read them.