vanilla memories

Sniff each bottom, where the gaps in the cellophane allow the scent to leak out. Very Berry Raspberry, Apple spice cake, almond toffee; the new, updated fragrances emphasize kitchen coziness, a dinner where tantalizing aromas and the oven's heat warmed even the coldest soul.

Today's vanilla candles smell the same as the ones she sniffed as a child, She'd wander away to the candle bin, while Mother huddled with her cronies at the luncheon counter. She'd lift each furtively from its box, rest her nostrils on its round bottom, and inhale. The alluring zing of cinnamon. Strawberry candles, like strawberry candy, soon bored with their excessive sweetness. Vanilla soothed and warmed her; vanilla hummed a magical, mellow tone.

"You can't stand there all day, kid,' the manager would bark. "Buy something or get out. This is a store, not a day care center"

She'd slink back to Mother's droning conversation. Mother's clothes reeked of stale cigarette smoke mixed with a throat-grating whiff of detergent; the other lady exhaled the stench of decay and near death, despite the gardenia perfume that she sprayed over herself like a veneer.

Maybe someday, Mother would buy vanilla candles for the house, instead of the unscented beeswax ones which were too expensive to light. Maybe Mother could buy her her very own vanilla candle for her birthday, instead of tiny cut-glass bottles of cologne, with its aggressive odor that knifed and shredded the inside of her nose. Her very own candle to hold forever, smell as she fell into sleep. An odor to comfort her in all seasons.