My mother's scent was hers alone
familiar from the start just like my own.
Shalimar and lipstick
salt air and steam irons
biege powder dusting her dressing table,
scattered sweaters, a turquoise negligee.
Once, invited to the Waldorf
for a DuPont dinner,
she spent a fortune on a formal dress.
Arrived in lace and pick satin
to face women clad in cocktail clothes.
Edna, ever the Indiana girl.
How many Manhattans did it take to kill
those feelings?
After her death,
I asked Sister Jose Hobday
“Will I ever smell that scent again -
touch her soft white hair?”
So much of me left with her
I am my mother’s child.
Peaceful in all worlds,
Sister Hobday laid
her hand on mine
and smiled.
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Published by
Cynthia M. Sheward
Cynthia Sheward has written poetry since she was a child. She was born in Massachusetts but spent her young life in New Jersey. She applied her English degree from Arcadia University teaching junior-senior high school in Vermont the 70’s. In the 80s, she and her husband built their own house with their own hands in the mountains of North Carolina. In the 90s, she returned to NJ where she worked for a Fortune 500 corporation until her retirement.
Her work has been published in Friends Journal, Evening Street, the Bennington Banner, Fiber Arts Magazine, the Mountain Times and various other print media.
She currently resides in Jupiter, Florida.
View all posts by Cynthia M. Sheward
Absolutely beautiful. You skillfully capture what it is to understand, remember, and long for someone we love.
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Very moving poem about feelings for a Mom. Liked it alot.
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Your postings always touch my heart, dear sister. Love you!
On Tue, Dec 17, 2019 at 10:54 AM A WELL-TRAVELED HEART wrote:
> Cynthia M. Sheward posted: “My mother’s scent was hers alone familiar from > the start just like my own. Shalimar and lipstick salt air and steam irons > biege powder dusting her dressing table, scattered sweaters, a turquoise > negligee. Once, invited to the Waldorf for a DuPont dinner,” >
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