At dusk someone walks by wearing my grandmother’s perfume. I turn but there is nobody there. The scent hangs in the drowning light. It reminds me of so many things. Images rush through my mind like film on a reel. Salmon-colored cabinets in the kitchen. Linoleum on the floor made to look like brick. A mug of warm milk on the table. The piano at the end of the hall. Her, listening to original Elvis 45s while she cleaned the house. Books, walls of books, which, when I was a child, she would read to me on a bed the size of a continent. The cold, blood-red floor in her bedroom. Enormous leaning trees in the corner of the parlor at Christmas, cluttered with bubbling, blinking ornaments. The smell of coffee. Her white shirts and off white tennis shoes in summer. So many things. The fireworks of memory.