The Bottle of Perfume

I play the records my first boyfriend gave me as my new lover twirls me around the kitchen.

The magnifying glass from my gram sits next to every book I read despite my 20/20 vision.

My grandfather’s Bible never leaves my bedside even though there are Sunday Masses left

unattended.

My hair gets stuck in the clasp of the necklace from the first man I ever truly loved-

It catches on my hair and as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

My throat gets a lump and becomes dry as I untangle my hair from its knot.

There is barely a drop of perfume from the bottle my mother wore on her wedding day.

I cannot part with it even after its fragrance is gone.

If I close my eyes long enough I can drown out the world with the scent of sandalwood.

I can imagine the way that my father looked at my mother as she walked down the aisle,

The way they would not know what the years to come would bring but they were still giddy with excitement, anticipation, and love for one another.

How their love faded as the perfume does on my wrist when I return home in the evening,

It became mixed with the must and sweat from the day.

The scent of sandalwood is faint but barely lingering.

Instead clinging to my mother is the cologne from the man she hugged too long after grabbing an innocent cup of coffee.

“He was a nice man,” mother said as his cologne overpowers your lungs with anxiety and

replaces your mother’s perfume which always felt like a soft sea breeze.

And yet despite it all, the empty perfume bottle stays up on my shelf.

All these things I carry with me.

The trinkets and knick-knacks clutter up corners of my heart.

And while it might give me peace to let them go, they stay.

Despite how much I clean, they gather dust, and I can never seem to put them in a box away.

I keep them out on the shelves despite the way it will leave me hurt.

Ultimately someone will come in, drop it accidentally, carelessly.

Not understanding the depth of what they were holding.

The weight that was under the pen from 6th grade or the clip from primary school.

The picture frame from a past friend who I never spoke to again.

Or the tea cup with the coffee stain on it that I almost am glad I can never wash out.

Leaving them out in the open but never really explaining.

It leaves me vulnerable, yet also guarded.

In a way that feels like having control over the exposure of my heart.