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Notes12/17/2019
Peanut
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Peanut
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66
Three quarters full
I distributed brochures during the fall holidays to buy it for you for Christmas. I had no idea of the scent. I had no idea about scents, woods, oakmoss, but you just had to get it: A photographer should own and carry "Photo", I thought.
I had no idea if it would suit you, because the scent seemed to me irrelevant. It was the name that counted for me. My ignorance paired with good intentions was rewarded: Because "photo" fitted exactly, it smelled something like the water from the pouring bottle that always wafted in your darkroom when I visited you so as not to take the bus home from school. Woody-sweetish and bitter-soapy, somehow generic, yet anything but arbitrary.
At some point the scent fell a little out of time. He became more invisible in the abundance of the ever more sparkling, sporty new releases, but you wore him unflinchingly. Not exclusively, but continuously. I gave it to you every now and then, because it belonged to you like your snap finger, your beard and your loose sweaters.
"There are still personal things in the bathroom," said the hospice nurse as we packed your things. She opened the window and let cold air flow into the room. Outside, people rushed back and forth to do the very last Christmas shopping, to get the annual, inevitable desperate gifts, naturally just before closing time. I went to the bathroom and looked around: Your shoes next to the oxygen bottle, your lavender soap, toothbrush. The bottle "Photo" at the washbasin. I had no idea you had him with you till the end. It was certainly not the same bottle as the one on Christmas Eve twenty-five years ago. But the same.
I put it in my pocket and took it home with me. I couldn't take you home with me anymore. It didn't make any sense to me, it was Christmas Eve. So much to do now - and yet nothing more. What do you do when your favorite person leaves? Where to look, where to find? Can Christmas even die and how long does "never again" last? An empty head, a full heart, a three-quarter full bottle of "Photo" in the coat pocket.
I still have no idea. Your Photo bottle is still exactly three quarters full. I always only sniff the spray head carefully, more than that I lack the guts. Because the last time you sprayed - and I want it to stay that way. None other than your snap finger should ever operate the sprayer. They have also set "Photo" - how cynical. Maybe it's better that way, because it reduces the probability that someone will give it to someone for Christmas. So by pure coincidence, as a gift of desperation just before closing time.
I had no idea if it would suit you, because the scent seemed to me irrelevant. It was the name that counted for me. My ignorance paired with good intentions was rewarded: Because "photo" fitted exactly, it smelled something like the water from the pouring bottle that always wafted in your darkroom when I visited you so as not to take the bus home from school. Woody-sweetish and bitter-soapy, somehow generic, yet anything but arbitrary.
At some point the scent fell a little out of time. He became more invisible in the abundance of the ever more sparkling, sporty new releases, but you wore him unflinchingly. Not exclusively, but continuously. I gave it to you every now and then, because it belonged to you like your snap finger, your beard and your loose sweaters.
"There are still personal things in the bathroom," said the hospice nurse as we packed your things. She opened the window and let cold air flow into the room. Outside, people rushed back and forth to do the very last Christmas shopping, to get the annual, inevitable desperate gifts, naturally just before closing time. I went to the bathroom and looked around: Your shoes next to the oxygen bottle, your lavender soap, toothbrush. The bottle "Photo" at the washbasin. I had no idea you had him with you till the end. It was certainly not the same bottle as the one on Christmas Eve twenty-five years ago. But the same.
I put it in my pocket and took it home with me. I couldn't take you home with me anymore. It didn't make any sense to me, it was Christmas Eve. So much to do now - and yet nothing more. What do you do when your favorite person leaves? Where to look, where to find? Can Christmas even die and how long does "never again" last? An empty head, a full heart, a three-quarter full bottle of "Photo" in the coat pocket.
I still have no idea. Your Photo bottle is still exactly three quarters full. I always only sniff the spray head carefully, more than that I lack the guts. Because the last time you sprayed - and I want it to stay that way. None other than your snap finger should ever operate the sprayer. They have also set "Photo" - how cynical. Maybe it's better that way, because it reduces the probability that someone will give it to someone for Christmas. So by pure coincidence, as a gift of desperation just before closing time.
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