by Diana Smith Bolton
When the rain rolls in, fat and warm like a purring wet cat, I smell the same scent: my mother’s Scotchgarded trench, heavy drops beading up on the sleeves, and the orange and brown plaid lining, blanket-thick, sopping up the moisture. She was brand-loyal; some things were just the best, like London Fog for humid Mississippi rain drenching an October day when you didn’t want to go to the store but had six mouths to feed.
Even now, that warm-breath muddy wetness brings her to me, years after our last word. I see her, pulling grocery sacks out of the car through the rain and into the garage, brown paper sagging to hold cans of condensed soup.
I smell and see my sisters, too, our skinny bodies enveloped in little London Fogs. Our mother picked them up at Goodwill or yard sales, like new, just then outgrown by other little girls. We are warm in these sturdy coats as we wait for the carpool. Some Januaries, southern-cold in the spongy yard, we run and flap our coat-wings, huffing our lung-warm air out into the chill like we are dragons, like Puff, like Figment, all pink and purple and navy, our plaid linings flapping like underbellies. As the sedan pulls up, we turn to the window, and see her frosted hair, one hand lifted to it, one hand lifting to us.
Dead Flowers 