Antiqued and covered with specks of dust
It sits across the room
Calling childhood memories
Of my mothers plush bedroom.
Its emerald green
Just as my birthstone
A pewter garden surrounds
It's round shape.
I encompass it in my hand
Tracing my fingers over its line work
Stopping on its dull vines and butterflies
I slowly unscrew the cap
that could use a little spit shine
Gently, I bring it to my nose
Bracing myself for the deep inhale.
I pull in that buried smell
From the glass bottle
Letting it tickle my nostrils
While broadening my shoulders.
I am taken back to a different time.
A time of moths in closets
Brooches on wool jackets
And curlers in hair.