Nostalgia, Sharlimar and a Little Dali

"The difference between false memories and

true ones is the same as for jewels:

it is always the false ones that look

the most real, the most brilliant."

-

Salvador Dali, painter

(1904-1989)

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My mother was here visiting last week and I've finally gotten around to doing the laundry. I let my chore linger as I couldn't bear to let her go just yet. All the sheets, her towel, they all had the essence of Sharlimar emanating softly from them. My grandmother wore it. My mother has always returned to it. Inspired by the love of an Indian Emperor for his wife, Mumtaz-Mahal (for whom the Taj Mahal was built), the perfume was named after "The Gardens of Shalimar," where their love blossomed.

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The vanilla, baby powdery scent always takes me back to childhood, holding onto my mother's flowing skirt as she was trying to finish getting ready for a junior league meeting, an afternoon tea, or a night at the opera. I can distinctly see her standing in front of her twelve foot high gold-leaf trimmed mirror (that once hung in my Great Aunt's ballroom size dining room) dabbing a bit here, a bit there. Behind the ear, at the top of her wrists, the smooth nape of her delicately powdered neck.

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I am ecstatic that Mother-Dear has returned to wearing Sharlimar after a brief hiatus of a few years to try Coco by Chanel--another classic, but it simply doesn't evoke the lovely haunting memories of my time at home, home being wherever mother-dear was. In my childish innocence I never realized how much I'd miss those moments of quiet togetherness that are now few and far between--challenges to be overcome over long distances and life's busy daily tempo. These are no false memories, of which I'm sure I have many. This love for my mother and her Sharlimar scented self is the real gem.

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Happy Birthday Mother-Dear.