Two dollars and fifty cents. That’s what it cost. The bottle is still on the top shelf behind the register.
Off-season Tuesday. The high plains wind scratches the windows. No one comes in. I take it down.
I don’t wear it. I just breathe. Lavender and something powdery. Her smell.
First time I smelled it was 1948. She walked past me at the church social. I knew right then I’d marry her. Before she ever said a word.
The hospital parking validation ticket is still in my wallet. Yellowed. October 1998. She told me not to keep it. I kept it anyway.
That Tuesday in October was the last time I held her hand. The beginning of an end I’d never live again.
I screw the cap back on the bottle. I put it on the shelf. The bell over the door rings. Someone needs a roll of baling twine.
I’m still here. The bottle is still here. Some beginnings don’t need to happen twice. They just need to stay true.