she was more than that

the girl that died
used the same perfume my father's mother
did.
i used to tell
her that which made
her smile, being
from new England, my
grandmother from north reading.
white linen? was that the name?
when she passed away,
fifteen years ago, i kept
a bottle
of it,
half empty that i found
on her dresser,
and would open it once
in a while
to get a whiff of her.
to get a whiff of both of them.
the memory wasn't the same.
in time
it evaporated and i threw
the bottle away.
she was more than that, they
both were.