There are certain memories which can be triggered in our daily lives. They take us back to different times in our life, and for a moment we are completely caught up in the flashback. Often, they are memories which have defined us in a way.
For me, there are a few things I strongly associate with my childhood: marzipan, my mother's banana bread and the smell of my father's cologne. The scent of his cologne stands out to me more poignantly than any other memory. My father put on his musky cologne only on two occasions. The first was when he took my mother out to dinner, and the second was when he took me to see the ballet. Whenever he took me, I wore the pretty dresses and shawls my mother had made for me. She'd brush my hair back with a matching silk ribbon and I'd slip on my best shoes. Running downstairs I'd find my father waiting for me at the steps, with a flower to match my dress. He called a carriage, and away we went, just he and I.
The ballets were splendid, to say the least. My father always got us box seats and I'd ooh and aah over the music and costumes, and my father would explain the story to me between acts. After each show, my father would take me to meet the dancers. He would introduce me as Margaret, his little lady and I'd shyly curtsey. They would give an affected laugh and peck my cheeks, calling me Peggy in their strange accents. They were so beautiful; they seemed like fairies even off stage! The one thing I didn't like, however, was the strong perfumes they used. So I'd skirt behind father's tailcoat, trying to inhale his cologne instead.
Afterwards on the carriage ride home, I'd fall asleep in his arms, with my flower still clutched tightly in my small fist. I dreamt of nothing but the beautiful dancers and divine music, all enveloped in my father's cologne. I spent the following days dancing out the ballet for my mum, and subsequently, awaiting the next time my father would take me again. He'd started this tradition with me since I was three, and I never failed to love each and every glorious evening we spent together.
The year I turned eleven, La Esmeralda was weeks away from its grand premiere at Her Majesty's Theatre. I was excited, and expecting to go with my father, hopefully on the very first night. It seemed, however, my fate did not have La Esmeralda written in it. March 7th, two days before the show opened, my father died. Simply collapsed. He came home in the evening, and I accompanied my parents in the dining room while they supped. And that's when it happened. His fork clattered, twice on his plate, and fell, splattering cheesecake all over the carpeted floor. I remember I didn't take my eyes off the fork until my mother gave a terrifying scream. I sat frozen, staring at my father on the floor. The butler and my mother were both bent over him, but I don't remember what they were saying. It was when my mother glanced back at me, when I knew I had lost him. I will never forget the look in her eyes. I quietly went to my room and pulled the red ribbon from my hair.
It has been fifty-three years since the night my father died. They told me later that it was heart failure which took his life. They also found two tickets to the opening show of La Esmeralda in his breast pocket. I haven't been to the ballet in all these years, but I always buy two box seat tickets to a show each year. Life eventually went on as it does, so I didn't reminisce about him too often. Today however, I found a small bottle of his cologne in a small shop just off Leicester Square. I smiled to myself, paid the clerk and exited the shop. Her Majesty's Theatre re-opened a few weeks ago. There is a show tonight, and I have tickets. I've decided to go. I'll wear my best gown and flower in my breast. I'll scent my handkerchief with his cologne. Life goes on after death, and we don't stop living. I may be sixty-four, but I will always be my father's little lady.
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