My mother’s scent is Lavender.
It wasn’t always so. When I was growing up, she wore Pheromone by Marilyn Miglin. None of the department stores in Orlando carried it, so when we visited family in Chicago, my father always made a special trip to Marshall Field’s on State St. to purchase some cologne, powder or Liquid Gold, as the lotion was called, for whatever gift-giving occasion was imminent. He had it gift-wrapped at the counter and it was always the prettiest present under our Christmas tree. It was so exotic and romantic to me as a little girl, and it only added to my perception of my mother being the most glamorous woman I knew. When I watched her dressing up to go out with my father and spraying her perfume, I hoped that I would grow up to be just like her.
Pheromone was soft and feminine. When she arrived home from an evening out and came in to my room to kiss me goodnight, the perfume still lingered; and when I went into her closet to retrieve empty hangers or the sewing basket, I smelled it faintly on her clothes. It was her scent; it smelled like ‘Mommy’ and the warmth and security that a young child, in particular, associates with her mother.
My mother had always been a one perfume woman, so we never purchased any other fragrances for her. In particular, she told me once that she disliked lavender because, she remarked, it smelled medicinal. Consequently, nearly five years ago I found myself at a complete loss, standing looking at pillow spray in Bath and Body Works. The whole situation was undesirable, really. I had flown from graduate school in Indiana to Orlando to be with her as she underwent surgery to remove breast cancer. My dear sister, who was unable to be there, and I had discussed getting her a gift and had decided that I would pick up some things to make her recovery more comfortable – a armchair pillow; soft, cotton, button-up pajamas; healing body butter; and pillow spray. All of the pillow sprays were aromatherapy – eucalyptus spearmint smelled like it might be used to cure a cold; orange bergamot was part of the Awake line, and seemed rather inappropriate for surgery recovery; ylang-ylang and jasmine were labeled Sensual, which lumpectomies certainly are not; and so all that was left was Lavender. I purchased it and qualified my choice. “I can exchange it,” I told her. “Oh, I love lavender now,” she told me. “My sense of smell must have changed during menopause,” she laughed.
And love lavender, she did. In her embrace of all things lavender, she acquired lavender body wash, powder, lotion, hand soap, hand lotion, and even dish soap. One day, shortly after my engagement, she called me. “I have a recipe for lavender scones,” she exclaimed. “It might be like eating potpourri,” I responded. “Oh no,” she replied confidently, “they’ll be good.”
And she was right. They appeared on the menu for my bridal tea. She made them when Clara was born. In the 30 minutes left between my round-the-clock, two-hour-apart, new born nursing marathon sessions, she would bring me two warm scones, split in half. One would have butter and the other raspberry jam. I would savor them, welcoming both the nourishment and her nurturing.
Most recently she brought me lavender scones when she came for a short visit to occupy and love on Clara while I put in some earnest work on my dissertation. Sprawled on the floor with sheets of music and analytical graphs in piles around me, a plate with scone crumbs sat next to my laptop.
Lavender scones are feminine but also grown up. I don’t know if I would have particularly liked them as a young girl, but tastes develop. Scents change. And mothering evolves as a child grows. But a mother’s love is constant.
I love you, Mommy. Happy Mother’s Day.
