It took me years to reclaim Chanel No 19. Convinced it smelled of gin and bitterness, I shunned it for decades and missed out. Turns out I was entirely wrong, that that was just the smell of my barbed wire mother whatever perfume she wore.

That is not the magic childhood scent memory we like to cling too.

I do have those: one grandmother with the dusty traces of Yardley lavender bath cubes, and a tissue up her sleeve, layered with the more exciting smells of uprooting things in the garden, the other in a remote lamplit corner swirling with dogs and some heavy golden chypre. Or my father’s reassuring lifelong bond with Old Spice, and the particular smell of his uniform.

Of horses, and freshly polished tack.
Butterscotch Angel Delight.
Libraries.
All the good stuff.

When I finally got over myself, No19 found me. The EDT still makes me a little uneasy, but the perfume is magic. It’s mine now, never hers, and it’s full of mossy vetiver greens, iris, and determined hope.

(It’s Dioressence that I still can’t wear.)

originally posted 19 March 2019