The Perfume Maker

She brought an old scarf through the door,
said, “This is all I have.”
A trace of rose,
a little smoke,
something warm that wouldn't last.

I held the fabric to the light,
then opened every drawer.
Amber.
Oud.
A touch of saffron.
One drop more.

She said,
“Can you make her again?”

I can't bring her back.
I can't turn the years.
But I can make the room remember
how she once was here.

One breath.
One moment.
Then the air moves on.
I can't bring her back,
but the scent is not yet gone.

I changed one note,
then changed it back.
The rose was much too bright.
I added smoke,
a darker wood,
and worked into the night.

At last she closed her eyes
and held the bottle near.

I can't bring her back.
I can't turn the years.
But I can make the room remember
how she once was here.

One breath.
One moment.
Then the air moves on.
I can't bring her back,
but the scent is not yet gone.

She opened it.

The room went still.

Then she smiled
and cried.

I can't bring her back.
I can't turn the years.
But I can make the room remember
how she once was here.

One breath.
One moment.
Then the air moves on.

Some things disappear.

Some stay
in the air.