Thursday, March 30, 2017

Ambushed by Dove

Without much thought I go about my daily routine. Its like autopilot. I can find myself dressed and walking out the door without even realizing that I picked out a shirt and put on the right colored socks. I get in my car and it points itself towards my usual breakfast spots and I take my favorite seat. All without thought or deliberation. I look at my hands and discover that I've gotten into something and they need a little attention before I eat. Its there, on the counter of the bathroom, laying in wait for me. A pump bottle of Dove Soap.

Instantly overwhelmed with sadness, I pick up the bottle and I am transported in space and time. To my mother's house. On a street enveloped in the arms of giant oak trees that created a tunnel of foliage as you arrived at Mom's house. The guest bathroom had the pump bottle. Everywhere else it was bars of dove. The aroma was unmistakable. A hug and a kiss always came with the fragrance of dove. The pillows and throws that decorated her home echoed its presence.

Lingering in the moment, I raise the bottle and drink in the aroma. Mom has been gone for years now. I still think of her everyday and sometimes, I find myself surprised by how fresh the loss remains. I stumble upon her from time to time, in the strangest places. Its her pancake batter, her kind of syrup. The recipe for my spaghetti is really hers and yes in a bottle of Dove.