I don’t know how old I was when I became aware that Mama wore Emeraude deCoty perfume and no other. It was her perfume. As a twelve or thirteen-year-old I went to a store to see what it cost. It cost a lot. I saved my money for weeks to buy it for her birthday. The smell of Emeraude deCoty and the smell of Mama were the same.

She died in 1984 and and eight years later in 1992 my husband and I moved to a co-op apartment in New York City. We were still settling in, still unpacking. He had gone off to work. As I unpacked things, I came upon Mama’s gold perfume bottle. I sat on the floor and unscrewed the top and gently sniffed. It was the smell of Mama—real and present to me. I cried a little—in the new space, in a strange environment—and it helped a little to have a moment of Mama.

The bottle was almost empty. I went to the perfume department at Macy’s and asked if they carried Emeraude deCoty. The saleswoman looked at me in disdain and said she thought I would find it at CVS or some other drugstore. I did and I refilled the bottle. And every once in a while I would open the bottle and smell—and remember her.

Just now in June of 2013 I went to the top drawer of my dresser. I took out the bottle of Emeraude deCoty and started to take the top off. I hadn’t done it for years. I prepared myself for nothing—no effect—no Mama. And guess what? It’s still there. It’s still Mama. I can almost see her—will it last forever?

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