The Scent of My Mother: An Invisible Embrace

The scent of her skin still lives in me.

When I close my eyes, she is there —

present, gentle, safe.

It was the scent of white, soft skin,

warm and intoxicating,

a scent that warms the soul and heart.

Every hug carried that scent,

every touch was like light

permeating the darkness.

I could stay in her arms for hours,

breathing that scent, feeling every breath,

while the world around us did not exist

except for her and me.

I remember how the scent traveled through the room

while she covered me with a blanket.

How it mixed with the gentle breath of her skin

and gently wrapped around my every feeling of safety.

That scent was not just the scent of skin;

it was the scent of love, safety, and warmth.

It was like a whisper saying:

“Everything will be alright.”

Now, in silence, it is enough for me to breathe in,

and the scent returns —

like an invisible embrace,

like light breaking through the gloom.

All worries vanish before that scent;

all sorrows become a distant memory.

My mother’s scent did not disappear with her departure.

It is in every corner of my memory,

in every breath.

When I close my eyes, she is there.

And her scent reminds me that love does not die,

that presence remains even when hands are not there.