Not Quite Out of Reach

When I think of the smell of Mum it
Is not quite out of reach
It is her white cardigan with the roses I wish I had kept
It is the tiny cushion with an embroidered “R”
It is the bottle of Tweed perfume
It is the single red lipstick she had for years
It is the satin bag with the gold chain handle
It is the powder compact never used
It is the green coat she always wore
It is the cinnamon balls she made for Passover
It is the homemade burgers every weekend
It is matzobri at Granny’s and the smell of the gas fire