Of mothers and memories

I remember waiting at home for my mother as she returned from work. It was spring and she was wearing a raincoat, with a scarf over her head. The smell of the spring rain and her perfume was unforgettable. To my young sensibilities, that was the unequivocal scent of home. Walking down the street the other day and passing another mother, it was as if I had been transported back fifty-five years…