She was my grandmother. And I’m sorry to say, I never really knew her very well. As far as grandmothers go, she missed her mark on more than one occasion. I like to think she tried, in her own way. I like to hope she did, anyway.
But I’ll never forget the one time she picked me up, took me the to the dollar store, and spent the afternoon with me. Even let me sit on her plastic covered sofas. I felt special that day.
You could always smell her coming. And where she had been. And sometimes where she was going to go. Her perfume could fill the room like laughing gas until everyone was choking on roses and shared the same flowery smelling hair and clothes.
She had the reddest lipstick I had ever seen, only to be matched by her inhumanly carrot orange hair. She swore until the day she died that she never once had it dyed. She’d kiss you on the cheek and you’d be left with a contact high from the perfume, and half a tube of Revlon on your face.
Her costume jewelry was always in sight and earshot, and dangling off of every body part it could live on. Necklaces, earrings, bracelets. Shiny and gold. Dangles and fake gems. She loved it.
She died when I was a teenager. I remember feeling guilty. Because i should have been more sad. I should have known her better.
But I can still tell you what her perfume smelled like.