my granny smelled of nivea,
that came out of the blue tin.
and if you were good, she'd take
a bit from the inside of the cover,
and put it on your wrist to smell.
other granny smells were English
Yardley talc which she never shared,
and patchouli on her sheets,
camomile in her tea,
and the funny pillows inside her shoes,
made with camphor and salt,
to keep bad smells and evil spirits,
from stepping into her satin shoes.
everyone spoke about how she lived,
in a cloud of fragrances, some good
others really revoltingly strong,
it kept people away from her bony hugs.
i never minded her skeletal cuddles,
so she let me use the phus-phus perfume bottle,
i never minded her bodily odors,
i never minded her cackling laughter,
i pretended she was going to live forever.
her room now smells of pinesol,
and promises to turn into
the family dump room - for stuff,
that will probably lie unloved,
too unimportant to be used,
and too important to be thrown away,
just like its previous occupant.
