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.