Tangled hair, sticky hands, a clanging, jangling, squealing 26 pounds of curiosity and energy, Cindy tackles me around the knees, knocking me to the kitchen floor amid the wreckage of my clean laundry and the contents of every cabinet within her reach. Her daddy speaks sharply to her and threatens a spanking. Tears fill her eyes and I scramble to my feet, hugging her close. "Enjoy her while you can; she won't be little for long," I tell Mark. "she has to learn to behave sometime, Mom, " Mark snaps. "How can we leave her with you while we go out, if you're just going to spoil her?" I open my mouth for an angry retort, but my husband winks and shakes his head. He knows, and will tell me later, that I am wasting words. Our son is not old enough yet to know what we know--too soon our babies are grown, too late we regret the time wasted in other pursuits instead of lavishing it upon those we love.

Almost shyly, Mark shows me the flowers he has for his Jessica--creamy white gardenias to wear in her long, dark hair. Closing my eyes, I breathe in the sweet, heavy fragrance of the thick white petals.
The lamps on the dressing table glow softly as my mother picks up the glass perfume bottle. She touches the cut-glass stopper to her wrists and the hollow of her throat where her pulse beats visibly. Then she holds her fingers tightly over the bottle mouth, tipping it to wet her fingertips. She gently strokes her fingers through my straight white-blond hair, so that I, too, smell of gardenias and mystery. I climb onto the bench, standing behind her, leaning against her shoulder as she brushes her dark, curly hair. It crackles with electricity, standing out around her fine-boned face like a dark halo. Her iridescent green eyes laugh back at me, the two of us reflected and framed by the large round mirror. Its beveled edge refracts the light, framing us in tiny rainbows. Her face glows, lit from within by her excitement. As she slips into her cobweb-thin silk stockings and straightens the seams, I stroke the cut-glass perfume bottle, the porcelain powder box that plays a tinkling tune, the myriad bottles and jars on their mirrored tray, the glittering jewelry laid out for her to wear. But as my fingers move toward the creamy velvet of the gardenia corsage, her hand gently stops my exploration. "Mustn't touch, baby," she says, explaining that the flowers are so delicate that the merest touch of my fingers would turn the creamy white petals brown. She offers me a fold of her ivory silk robe to touch. It is smooth and cool and pearl white, like her skin. She gazes intently into the mirror as she powders her already flawless face; I breathe deeply, inhaling the fragrances of her powder and perfume. Behind us, Daddy pads barefoot across the hardwood floor, putting gold cuff links into the stiffly starched cuffs of his best shirt. I know that smell, too. I help Mommy starch and iron our clothes every Tuesday, and she always takes extra time with Daddy's Sunday best shirt. I watch him approach us in the mirror. He leans down to press his cheek against Mommy's hair. His Indian-brown arms encircle us, and I see the three of us in the round mirror, framed by rainbows. Daddy's carpenter hands are hard and callused; the silk robe catches on his work-roughened hands as he lifts me up and hugs me close. I rub my cheek against his, savoring the smoothness of his freshly shaven face and the tang of Old Spice.

The next moment, we are at the door and Mommy and Daddy are kissing me good-bye. It is a special occasion, their anniversary, and Granny and I are going to Skillern's Drug Store for an ice cream soda. Mr. Pearlman puts his big red book on the round stool so that I am tall enough to see over the counter. He warns me not to spin around so many times that I get dizzy, but of course I do anyway. When the sodas arrive, my pleasure in the creamy cold sweetness of the vanilla concoction is doubled as I look into the mirror behind the soda fountain and watch Granny and me sucking down our sodas through straws, laughing at the final slurp at the bottom of the glass.

Then we are home again, the house dark and silent without Mommy and Daddy. Granny takes the lid off the powder box so the music will play, and its tinkling tune mingles with her humming as we rock in her little rocking chair. The rhythm of our rocking and the rhythm of her song play a counterpoint to the beating of our hearts. I gaze into the round mirror as my eyes close in sleep, and I see her arms encircling me, holding me against her heart.
Just a few heartbeats later, I lift Cindy into my arms and she waves good-bye to her mommy and daddy. She smells of excitement and mystery, mommy's perfume and daddy's aftershave. Anniversaries are special days, and we are going to get an ice cream soda. The song on this page is:"Unchained Melody"