Shalimar

An old perfume bottle, subtly smelling of Shalimar, the fragrance now a bit dusty and musty but still with the power to evoke memories of my mother, who didn't like me much but was forced to accept my benevolence in her last days. I can still see her, white hair immaculate, clothes pristine, all creature comforts to hand and an icy stare that could slice through silk at a hundred yards.

Strangely, I'm quite fond of her, now.