My Mother’s Perfume

When our mother was wearing her signature perfume, all was right in the world.

I couldn’t tell you it is a blend of subtle spice, jasmine and rose; woody and floral; with a citrusy top, floral heart and amber base. What I can tell you is that it is the scent of my childhood.

Germaine Monteil’s “Royal Secret” perfume was introduced in 1958. I was five years old. At five, that scent announced itself like an ethereal spirit, wafting in before my mother, whose dark mahogany hair curled around her shoulders, perfectly framing her just-the-right-shade-of-red-lipstick lips. I would drink in that smell as if I was drinking from the cup of happiness itself.

When our mother was wearing her signature perfume, all was right in the world. Something exciting like a party, event or holiday, was about to happen. There might be gifts, cake or other treats. If she and our father were having a “date night” we could watch as much TV as we wanted and have burgers and fries from our favorite fast-food restaurant. If we were lucky, we were going with them and could order Shirley Temple’s with plastic mermaids or monkeys spearing maraschino cherries while dangling from the sides of our glasses.

Some nights, after we had gone to bed and she had her “me” time, she would add a couple of drops of perfumed oil to her nighttime bath. The richness of it creeping under our door, lulling us to sleep.

When Christmas, Mother’s Day or her birthday rolled around, she could always count on one, or all of us kids gifting her bath oil, perfume, body lotion or scented powder. We wanted her to smell like happiness forever.

After our father passed, she didn’t wear it as often. There were fewer dinners out or parties, and less need to re-stock her supply. After she died, the faintness of her perfume drifted like wisps of clouds through our days. Memories floated in our minds like snapshots from a Kodak carousel each time we picked up her scent from the clothes she wore that we folded and packed to donate. When it came time to clean out her vanity, I took the bottle of perfume from the counter.

My mother has been gone for four years. My sisters and I used to be cavalier about how we’d do when she passed. We miss her every day and are surprised by how often we recall the things she did and taught us.

Today, I’ll take the bottle from the bookshelf, lift the cap and take in the deep, musky scent of my childhood. And I’ll be happy.