Why are old things the most beautiful?
This pale apricot lotion soaks into my skin with its storied
perfume, with its layers of wealth and memories. It contains qualities that I
could never buy from Bath and Body Works. Those companies could never bottle a fragrance
with components such as this: soft vintage feel, old lace, marble kitchen
counters and leather chairs for my shoe buckles to persistently puncture;
curling ribbons of salty snow-white cheese studded with black sesame seeds;
tiny rooms indenting long echoing corridors, rooms lined with shelves of fine
liquor or filled with classic furniture warmed once or twice by special guests
or one curious niece; big dollar bills pressed into my hand by a doting aunt,
along with this Gucci Accenti lotion several years ago.
It smells like
childhood moments of delight and awe, of the reward for enduring ten hours in
the car with siblings, of wonderment at the beauty within my aunt’s immense manor,
of appreciation for her generosity. It smells like memories. It smells like
elegance and adventures in New York City and the best hide and seek games ever.
I spill some on my skin and massage it in so that I can smell like
all of that, too.
Why does this old lotion smell more beautiful than any other scent I've ever worn?
I sniff the backs of my hands and relish eau du nostalgia.
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