Top Notes 
Freesia
Mandarin orange
Raspberry
Heart Notes 
Magnolia
Rose
Snowdrop
Base Notes 
Caramel
Patchouli
Vanilla
Rectangular Eyebrow
Palonera
467 Reviews
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Palonera
Top Review
21
Grandmother's Lap
When the days are still getting shorter, still grayer, still colder, then one longs for a bit of warmth, for childlike sweetness, for cuddling and security.
For hot fruit tea in the evening on the sofa, thick cozy socks on my feet, my beloved next to me, and around us a sea of small lights that make me forget that outside the window the north wind is whistling and icy torrents are pouring down from the pitch-black evening sky.
Then I don't want to think about being grown up and sensible, that there are duties and a calendar, ticking second hands, and something called responsibility.
Then I want to be the little girl again, back on grandmother's lap, listening to stories of enchanted princes and sleeping princesses, sticky fingers tightly wrapped around candied fruits that were completely forgotten in the excitement.
No giant could be so big, no witch so evil, that I would have truly been afraid, not in grandmother's soft arms, not within sight of grandfather's cane, with which he intended to scare away every villain.
Childhood - sweet, irretrievable memories, all-encompassing security, no thought of tomorrow, of "When I grow up..."
Now I am grown up.
Now the world is cold, gray, and dark, filled with terrors that no walking stick can handle.
But sometimes there is sparkling fruit tea, cozy socks, my beloved on the sofa, and a scent that sends me back four decades.
It stands before me on the table.
A square pillar, frosted in pale rose, the silver stars already slightly faded.
Unassuming and not "sadly expensive."
Nothing exclusive, nothing lofty, not seriously grown-up and certainly no status symbol.
Prickly light pink rosebuds and a young magnolia, more drawn on a blueprint than blooming in the garden, soon blend with raspberry jelly fruits - sweet and girlish, but only for a few minutes, just long enough for light woody notes to come in and dim the sweetness.
Rosebud fruit tea - that fits now, finely sweetened with flower honey and sparkling red in candlelight.
Not loud, not expansive - a well-perceptible aura at arm's length, turning big and small noses sniffing in my direction without noticeably wrinkling them.
A bit scratchy at times like those thick wool sweaters I wore before cashmere and angora became wearable alternatives, and still with a fine prickling that lasts deep into the base.
Over time, the scent warms up, sheds the scratchiness, and gains sweetness, which can appear fine and a little crispy depending on skin and outside temperature, but in very warm surroundings begins to stick like those children's lollipops that, carelessly set down, are hardly separable from their surface.
And there it is again, the little girl who is so easily made happy with gummy fruit and raspberry candies, with Sleeping Beauty on grandmother's lap, with thick socks and flickering candles, while outside the dark window the wind howls in the trees and no terror can harm it.
Sometimes it doesn't have to be more.
For hot fruit tea in the evening on the sofa, thick cozy socks on my feet, my beloved next to me, and around us a sea of small lights that make me forget that outside the window the north wind is whistling and icy torrents are pouring down from the pitch-black evening sky.
Then I don't want to think about being grown up and sensible, that there are duties and a calendar, ticking second hands, and something called responsibility.
Then I want to be the little girl again, back on grandmother's lap, listening to stories of enchanted princes and sleeping princesses, sticky fingers tightly wrapped around candied fruits that were completely forgotten in the excitement.
No giant could be so big, no witch so evil, that I would have truly been afraid, not in grandmother's soft arms, not within sight of grandfather's cane, with which he intended to scare away every villain.
Childhood - sweet, irretrievable memories, all-encompassing security, no thought of tomorrow, of "When I grow up..."
Now I am grown up.
Now the world is cold, gray, and dark, filled with terrors that no walking stick can handle.
But sometimes there is sparkling fruit tea, cozy socks, my beloved on the sofa, and a scent that sends me back four decades.
It stands before me on the table.
A square pillar, frosted in pale rose, the silver stars already slightly faded.
Unassuming and not "sadly expensive."
Nothing exclusive, nothing lofty, not seriously grown-up and certainly no status symbol.
Prickly light pink rosebuds and a young magnolia, more drawn on a blueprint than blooming in the garden, soon blend with raspberry jelly fruits - sweet and girlish, but only for a few minutes, just long enough for light woody notes to come in and dim the sweetness.
Rosebud fruit tea - that fits now, finely sweetened with flower honey and sparkling red in candlelight.
Not loud, not expansive - a well-perceptible aura at arm's length, turning big and small noses sniffing in my direction without noticeably wrinkling them.
A bit scratchy at times like those thick wool sweaters I wore before cashmere and angora became wearable alternatives, and still with a fine prickling that lasts deep into the base.
Over time, the scent warms up, sheds the scratchiness, and gains sweetness, which can appear fine and a little crispy depending on skin and outside temperature, but in very warm surroundings begins to stick like those children's lollipops that, carelessly set down, are hardly separable from their surface.
And there it is again, the little girl who is so easily made happy with gummy fruit and raspberry candies, with Sleeping Beauty on grandmother's lap, with thick socks and flickering candles, while outside the dark window the wind howls in the trees and no terror can harm it.
Sometimes it doesn't have to be more.
20 Comments
Jennytammy
