My Grandmother's Purse

When I was seven, sometime between the last gasping death of a Tyrannosaurus Rex and the Sputnik launch, my step-grandmother would occasionally drop by our house on a Sunday afternoon. Not all that exciting actually for a kid my age—I was busy setting a model of the Alamo on fire or searching desperately for an escaped hamster—except for one thing: she always brought her purse, black silk, ribbony folds and a mock turtle (I hope) top hinge that snapped so loud it could be heard in the basement (by the hamster who was nesting near the hot water heater).

Inside said purse, there were cough drops so strong that they made your head spin, and I was addicted to them as if they were some kind of necessary, but secret, serum—that is, if secret serum makes your head explode, your sinuses decongest for a fortnight and your eyes dilate like Cruella deVille tracking down a dalmatian. I'm not sure what they were, but when she offered me one, she did it with a knowing look like, "oh you little junkie, don't worry I won't let on.”

In fact, when she opened the purse it released the strangest amalgam of scents that to this day I would be able to recognize if there were some sort of bizarre Proustian contest. Chanel No. 5, talcum powder, lipstick, and the camphorous honey of the coughdrops.

I later determined that had we souls, they would smell exactly like this.