A scent addict's tribute to mom

For as long as I can possibly remember, my mother has worn Shalimar. To me it's the scent not just of the woman with her hair in a bandana dusting high shelves, or cleaning the oven, or kneeling in the sandbox to make mud pies with the children... to me mostly it's the scent of the tall elegant woman who would appear once or twice a month on special occasions, flanked by my proud and dashing dad. I would marvel at her sparkling jewelry and oh-so-sophisticated high heels. And when the Shalimar was almost completely faded, overtaken by the smells of prefab pizza and babysitter's burnt popcorn, she and the Shalimar would waft back in again and settle us into bed, telling soft stories of starry nights and magical places.