There was never an event without my mother. Not a book signing. Nor exhibition. A keynote speech. She was there. And not because she showed up that particular day. No. Because she was there at the beginning. She was outside my bedroom door at five to gather in my latest drawing. She framed the earliest poems and hung them by the bathroom mirror for morning inspiration. She walked me through graduation. Helped me clean the first dirty apartment I could afford. Always with a smile, and the hint of Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door.

She wore it well. Never overpowering. A slightly floral hint of kindness. Of excitement. Of “I will always be there.”

I keep a bottle on hand. When I walk into my bathroom, there is the scent of possibility. Breathing it in, I can hear the clink of her make-up against the counter. Because in the sound of her getting ready, I could hear the promise of good things to come, and not only did she urge me to believe it, but to Get Ready!

Just a waft will lift me. Ever. Into all the goodness that is right in front of me. That is yet to come. With the smell of hope I feel it. I know it! And I’m ready!