This morning, when I liberally applied my new Lush conditioner, the smell reminded me of my sister, Megan.
I don't know what it was. Maybe the chalky orangeness of it. Maybe the woodsy sweetness in it. Whatever it was, it was as if she'd walked past the room and I could smell her.
My sister Megan, for those who don't know, is really the closest thing I ever had to a mother. She's thirteen and a half years older than me and took care of me when I was little, both before and after my mother died.
If I could paint a picture of Megan with words, first I would brush her face with a stroke of dignity, followed by a sigh of stately grace. For her hair, I would layer burnt umber with a swash of heated passion. Her skin with muted eggshells and her eyes, mossy olive and emerald.
I remember these things when I think of my sister:
Orange Volkswagen Beetle
Macaroni and cheese
Royal Albert teacups
Madame Alexander dolls
Cowboy hats boots shirts western
The Bar-D Ranch