"Cartier Independence,"
stationed behind the bathroom mirror,
lying in the glovebox of the car;
my father always found his way to it.
Along with the stench of smoldering incense when he recited his morning prayer,
his cologne lingered.
Sometimes I put on my father's cologne, and I cloak myself in his ragged musk.
It's not me.
I'm missing the depth of the cigarettes behind the glorious mountain fronted on his usual pack of Seneca Blue 100's;
I'm missing the sharp burn of the vodka which often comes in bottles;
I'm missing the tender rigidity of his calloused and gold-decorated hands.
I still wear it, though.
I still look in the mirror, watching us, and let my fingers press down on the nozzle of the cologne.
Do I deserve his scent?
Do I want it?
Do I deserve the comparison to him--
the same face,
same eyes,
same life?
Do I want it?
After years, my mother's gift from my father stands still,
buried under samples of Eau De Toilette.
He waits for my fingers to again press down and bask in acceptance.
He knows I will;
I want to use my own cologne,
but it all seems too childish -- too meaningless.
Tonight, along with the speckles of dust resting on the nozzle and the prints of my fingers,
I will smell of him,
talk of him,
think of him,
but I will wear my own cologne:
"Cartier Independence."