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The memory of smell
Ronda Rich
It was after a speaking engagement in Chattanooga when I was signing books that an arm slipped over my shoulders from the back and a woman leaned forward to press her cheek against mine. Before I saw her, I smelled her fragrance. I stopped, my Sharpie paused inches above a book, and I drifted back for a moment to the days when I took that scent for granted. I inhaled deeply then turned to see my sweet friend, Martha Martin. “Are you wearing Youth Dew?” I asked. She smiled and nodded. “It’s what I’ve worn for many years.”