Perfume

There was a cabinet in my grandmothers upstairs bathroom. The room itself was always clean and very feminine. The sink had fine ceramic containers, painted of course by her. She loved to paint, and she was very talented. Strangely, until this moment, I did not realize how much I associate her with that upstairs bathroom cabinet.

The cabinet was tall and thin, and had many shelves inside. The little knob to pull it open was old brass and simple. A small scroll around the outside of the knob was worn smooth. The paint always seemed very bright white, I do not know if it really was bright or if it was just my memory. It’s been more than 35 years since I saw that bathroom. When I would open that cabinet, the combined fragrances of dozens of bottles of perfume would wash over me. I would open that cabinet almost every time I used that bathroom, and would sneak in there just to open it.

The bottles were beautiful and sculpted in a variety of shapes and pastel colors. There were atomizers with fringe, in various shades of pink and peach. The bright silver and gold caps on others glinted in the dark of the cabinet. The amber liquid in the bottles in various depths would shake slightly as the cabinet was opened. I knew I was not to use those bottles, or even touch them really. They were mysterious and magical and I was so excited to grow up so I could use them too. I would not ever see those bottles again once I reached age 14. I never walked into her house again.

My grandmother taught me so many things, but mostly I now think of her as a person in and of herself. Not a teacher, not my grandmother, not a wife, not a mother, just a women. I wonder now about what she thought of the lies my mother told her about me. I wonder now if I would have ever been able to talk to her about what I was going through. I wonder what her dreams and aspirations were. I think about how she did in school, did she like it? What did she really want from her life? What were her favorite books? I wonder how she would feel about that fact that perfume reminds me more of her than anything else.

She was so talented, as I mentioned earlier. She was a very gifted seamstress and painter. She would be awake by 4:00am at the latest. I would find her behind her sewing machine, or behind her easel. When I would ask her why she was up, she would explain that she was “up worrying”. It seems I come by my anxiety by genetics and not just trauma. She painted flowers and fruit that were so delicate and lifelike that it seemed she has placed them on the easel, and not just recreated them. She loved her native heritage and would paint portraits of the great chiefs and warriors, mothers holding babies, and great stretches of natural beauty. Landscapes that seemed to bleed color adorned her home, and she was very proud of them. She should have been. They truly were lovely, and not having any of them in my own home is a painful reminder of how I was never deemed worthy of her treasures. My mother made sure of this.

She made sure I had Christmas gifts, more years than not I am sure. I would not have had any fruits or veggies if it had not been for her. Honestly she kept me fed better than I was fed at home. Her sourdough pancakes were the absolute best thing I have ever eaten, and knowing I will never taste them again makes me miss them all the more. Her holiday meals were gorgeous. The recipes her own, and her mothers. Food has always been a big comfort for me, and hers was the very best.

Yet, her perfume cabinet is the softest and realest memory of her I have.

When she died, I found out through the newspaper. Her obituary did not mention me. I showed up at the funeral and was not invited to sit with the family. I sat in the back pew and hoped for recognition. I would never get it because I was the one who talked, the one who did not fit in, the one who stood out and stood up. I was not one of them, and they made sure I knew. I knew, I have always known. My tears were no less real than theirs, my grief and my exclusion made for a very difficult service. At the gravesite, there was no chair for me there either. I stood in the back, alone. My mother looked through me, and my sisters stared, but would not approach. None of them even nodded in my direction.

I have thought so much about her over the years. I have only three pictures from my family. Sadly, none of them are of her. Her face is fading, her voice almost gone all together in my mind. But even now, all these years later, I can still smell that cabinet.

She will stay in my mind as a symphony of florals and woods. She will be reflected in the beautiful glass and the soft colors that captured my imagination. I will do all I can to keep that memory safe, and wrap it gently in gratitude.