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BRUNOpolo Update
Mother.
She smelled of sandalwood and mist. However, crisp. I feared washing her clothes. Her scent was the last tangible sense I could hold onto. Eventually, it faded and I haven't smelled it since. Until I washed a Wolford bodysuit. It tripped me up, like seeing something move out of the corner of your eye. I clutched the sheer black scrap of fabric and hugged it to my nose. Amazing. There it was: that sandalwood smell. Just from the smell you could guess, without ever knowing her, that her skin was olive toned, smooth, and almost translucent and dewey. I could never wear this garment in fear that it would, in turn, smell like me. My mother, preserved olfaction.
There were other atrocities of reverence and nostalgia: the pair of YSL 6 1/2 sized shoes desperately too small for my 8 1/2 sized foot. They perch on my bookcase, like bookends. Only strong enough to hold up the Hannah Hoch book she had given me as a gift to inspire me when I was 15.
Her collection of Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses, again, too small for my broad, swimmer's frame. Hung waifs, awaiting a low-tide of a person to embody them.
The various silk blouses she designed in the 90s - stained, missing buttons, abandoned. Unworn since quitting my office job.
2 watches that have both since stopped ticking. One, a black Seiko from the 80s. I wore it daily since her death. I'm sure it's in need of a new battery. The other, a gold Bulova from the 70s. It was the watch she wore the day I was born.
That very watch stopped the second I was born. The same second my mother's heart stopped. The second my heart stopped. We began beating again, in unison. The watch didn't start ticking again until I brought it home after her death. Its failure to function as of late, seems to me, as a sign to move on. Time for me to go and buy my own damn watch.
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