[Prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/ .]
I don’t remember much about my mother, aside from stories and photos in the sticky pages of albums. Through these aids, I could tell you that she had curly black hair that barely brushed the tips of her shoulders when she shrugged. I’m told she had the best laugh that could spread around a room like a disease. I know her voice could be as loud as a storm when she was angry, and as soft as a summer breeze when she was content.
But the one thing I know without a doubt was her love for lily of the valley. My only recollection of her is a faint whisper of that sweet, subtle, floral scent. Indeed, whenever I think of her, it’s like I smell her perfume all over again. Had the scent not been discontinued shortly after her death, I would have been wearing it constantly, just so I could feel as though I was close to her in some way.
So imagine my surprise when the new girl at school, the one everyone’s been talking about, passes me in the hall and I catch a whiff of that same exact smell.