Mother’s Purse

New or old,
it mattered not.
Brown or black,
I really don’t recall.

Still, certain scents
carry me away,
to carefree days
of childhood bliss.

The smell of tobacco
almost camouflaged
by open rolls of
breath mints.

The lingering hint
of sweet perfume,
maybe a tiny sample
sized vial of cologne.

And the residue of
hairspray on the
brush that
teased her hair.

After all these years,
I guess it wasn’t really
the aroma of “Certs”
over cigarettes.

Nor the common
fragrance of
“White Rain” or
“Chanel #5″ either.

The bouquet of her
purse was wonderful
because it was hers,
and it smelled like…love.

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