Letter from Mother

Today, I read my mother's letter in a lonely room.

I miss you, she wrote.

From what I remember,

my mother's perfume was a warm Burberry of wintry pine,

ever so soft and elegant on a bitter–snow night.

In a crowded room,

I could shyly detect it, amongst the others, and I'd look upon her smile: the

tallest kite in the sky that waved and winked at me, and I'd wink back.

From what I remember,

my mother's perfume dwelled in her bible, in the Christmas tree, in every

hug. It dwelled in her cookies and her pies and in the fur of our family puppy.

In a lonely room,

sometimes I shyly detect it, and by surprise, it winks at me. Sometimes it

stings, sometimes it lingers too long, and sometimes - not long enough.

For what I know,

I have not been able to smell a rose in fifteen years, but I still shyly detect my

mother's perfume in every letter she writes me. I miss you, it says.

I miss you.