My mom’s birthday was March 25th, and I didn’t notice … she died in 2012, so while I’m sure she didn’t notice either it’s an odd feeling  that the day passed for me as nothing more than another ordinary Sunday.  I thought about it, and her, today when I read a wonderful piece in the New York Times titled, “Smells Like Home”.  Maybe more impactful than the article itself were the multiple comments from folks who contributed their little bits of themselves and what they remembered; what prompted their emotional reactions and why.  Really wonderful stuff overall, and more than worth a Sunday read.

My story is about Mom’s perfume, me, and my younger brother at Christmastime around fifteen years ago.  I should preface it by saying that though she was showing the first signs of Alzheimer’s, it was still negligible and she was most definitely still Mom.  Nonetheless, memories for all of us were precious.

She wore one fragrance: Woodhue.  It isn’t made anymore and I have no clue what company originated it - all I do know is that she smelled like it (as did every room she was in when it was first applied and fresh; especially the kitchen) for enough years to make a bottle a standard gift when I was very young.  Time passed, many, many things changed and Woodhue’s presence disappeared.  I honestly don’t know if it happened because it wasn’t available or because Mom stopped buying it, but either way I stopped paying attention to her lack of any scent other than older, aging woman.  Maybe because I was turning into one, too, and forgot to remember a lot of things that should have mattered, or perhaps I stopped thinking of her as young enough to wear perfume.

So, while doing the obligatory on-line shopping that Christmas season, I happened through total happenstance upon a website selling discontinued Woodhue.  Well.  After tripping along memory lane on my own for a bit, I called my brother - who, perhaps even more than I, shared the same trigger - and announced that I had found The. Perfect. Gift.  You know the one, so I won’t explain further, except to say that we instantly became the children we had always hoped to be and I giddily not only paid the somewhat exorbitant price but expedited shipping, to boot.  For some reason (known only to memory plucked nostalgia) I had to have it in my hands immediately … and when I did, my brother and I happily plotted how best to give The. Gift.  At this point in our family life, there were just the three of us, so we were certain that giving it as the last “special” gift would cause angels to sing and candles to light spontaneously.

Here’s what really happened:  Mom opened the elaborately wrapped box, looked at the Woodhue label and said something like, “Well, look at that.”  When she looked up at us, smiling her gift-receiving smile and noticing how breathlessly we were awaiting the second coming, she added, “Can you help with the box?  I can put some …”.  I think we interrupted by diving on said box, drooling over the actual bottle and spraying it in her general direction.  She beamed.  Guess what caused her the most happiness: the perfume or her adult children turning back into her little kids?

I suppose my point is that to my brother and me the scent of Woodhue did, and still, represents a piece of our memory that belongs to our mother.  To her, it was a perfume she used to love and wear.  There’s a part of me, as an older woman myself edging closer to the age she was then, that recognizes the importance of both.