I admired, perhaps even coveted, the lamps that sat on my grandmother’s bureau. Clean, dustless. Cut glass lamps flanking either end of the bureau’s top. Between them sat a mirrored tray with an array of perfume bottles. One bottle had an atomizer. The bottle was empty. It was glamorous, and I would press the pump and feel the bottle exhale on my face and listen to the hiss as the atomizer expanded.
Then, I’d glance at a beautiful Catholic statuary - a robed Christ, hand to his chest, gently gesturing towards his bleeding heart. I would hurry to the bathroom in my grandparent’s room, satisfied by the breath of an empty perfume bottle.