Here’s another scent-memory.
I’m sitting at my grandmother’s dressing table, gazing at reflections of my eight-year- old self in its three mirrors. Her silver jewelry box, lined with sandalwood, is open. A rose gold bangle set with a single diamond winks at me.
But my hand strays instead to a small creamy flacon painted with the most delicate purple petals. I lift the stopper and inhale. The sweet scent of violets washes over me. I feel woozy; my vision blurs. It’s the most beautiful fragrance of my young life.