Apothecaries and the arbiters of memories

Your commute these days
is from the bedchamber
or the boudoir if you will,
to the study.

Immersed in such elegant
habitation, is it
as far fetched as the perfume
you wore to just get downstairs,
to your next online meeting?

And you sauntered over
offered me your cheek and brow,
so I could plant a kiss on each
and smell you … was that the plan?

It made my thoughts
sparkle in smiles,
Light reminding me
of my father,
my uncles, my brother,
while I was a little girl,
and the smells of sweaty men
in tropical churches,
masked then with the musk
of apothecaries.

A montage of childhood homes,
a deluge of conversations
of all people beloved,
those long gone,
and I wanted to cry,
at the craftiness of scent makers,
who wish to be
the arbiters of memories and
for the time travel they spin
with their liquid concoctions.

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The smell of perfumes in my home when there is no place to go, ah the irony !

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