I have been a terrible mother lately. Selfish one. I want my child to be with me, enjoying her company, but to control her, as well, albeit in need of more time for myself, which I get hard and do not feel bad when I indulge in it. When she is away from me, I know it is for her own good – to diversify her experiences, to grow among other people who would paint differently her worldview, but then I am miserable, I am anxious and all her possessions scatter and gather me back like I am a cloud of dust.
Peachy smells like the hair of my daughter when sleeping, of the colored rubber bands with which she weaves me bracelets, of her forgotten cardigan on the coat rack. Frankly, this perfume is not explosive as a volcano sweeping all them cuties sniffed before, neither it unfolds as a saga from Frank Herbert. But it doesn’t have to be. Nice enough, I can breathe a drop to trigger instantaneous reaction of stars being born along the billions of neurons that I have raised and who I obey flawlessly.
Peachy is the whole idea of peach – the velvet moss of the fruit, the juicy inside, the seeming fragility of the trunk, the calligraphic curved leaves. The fragrance polished by the immaculate flair of Nastya, like a pebble into the sea, as the peach glints in lemon-rubbery , or geranium-bittery, or woody-dry overtones.
When my kid is away, Peachy alleviates the melancholy.
Nose: Anastasia Denisenkova
Photos: personal archive, Нос по ветру