They say scent has the strongest tie to memory, that when you lose someone you remember more the smell of them then the person over time. I think for me at least it's true.

When I think of my mom I don't remember smiles or laughs or even the color of her eyes, I remember smells. I remember the way she smelled when she pulled me close for a hug and kiss good night, cookies and menthol cigarettes. Or how on special occasions she smelled of White Shoulders, the only perfume I ever knew my mother to wear. A perfume that stopped being made not too long after she passed.

For a time after she died I had the half used bottle of her perfume to comfort me at night, I would spray it on a pillow and bury my face in it so she could still hug me good night. Or when life was difficult and I needed her most I'd wear a little of it myself, so I could always smell her with me.

But that half used bottle of perfume only lasted a few years and then like my mother the smell was gone. Occasionally I'd run into older women who were the perfume and the scent will fill me with a sort of peace, but that never lasted.

Then on my wedding anniversary Trenton tells me, "Leah close your eyes." So I sat there eyes shut tight, smiling, hands held out like a small child receiving a surprise. He placed a box in my hands, a decently heavy box for it's relatively small size, and slowly I opened my eyes.

I knew what he had given me before I even focused on it. I knew that peachy pink colored box, it matched the color of her perfume, and I could smell it. I sat there silently, tears slowly rolling down my face as I stared at that box. Opening it I tossed the box aside and cradled the cool glass bottle to my chest breathing it in, crying harder the stronger the scent became as I slowly inched it towards my nose.

Trenton stood before me confused, almost crying himself as I looked up at him bottle clutched to my chest like I was a child with my most prized possession in the world protecting it from capture, tears rolling ceaselessly down my cheeks. All I could do was whisper softly too him, thank you. As he pulled me close in a hug.

Thank you, over and over and I couldn't stop crying.

For my first wedding anniversary my husband gave me back my mother. Because now when ever I need her, there's that peachy pink box, that matches the color of the perfume in the bottle inside, and there's that smell, when I need her as strange as it sounds, my mother is only a sniff away.