Perfume for my father: A lavish gift

Of all the presents I’ve ever given my father—the lavish art books, the magnificent antique easel we bought together for his studio, the cashmere, and the classical music—it was the small bottle of fragrant bath essence I gave him last Christmas that may be the most important gift of all. In his nursing home, where Parkin­son’s and dementia compete as likely causes of his demise, kind staff occasionally take him to the bathroom, lift his painfully thin frame into the warm water, and leave him and Mum in private so that she can help him bathe.

They live separately, and Dad’s passivity and tiredness and frailty mean that there are always people, appliances, and medicines around them and interrupting them. The bath time is the most intimate time and touch possible for them. After 50 years of marriage my dad’s hands—which once painted stunning pictures and caressed his wife—are so translucent that you can see all their workings. He draws in the air with them sometimes now. He has a tremor. Bath time allows him gentle, distant echoes of the power of his youthful touch. It’s my parents’ least mediated, least frustrating communication. It’s a place where Mum can be wife instead of caregiver.

So a little fragrant extravagance seemed the most important gift I could give. It is likely to be his last Christmas gift. Such a transient gift admits that we are letting him go. We are preparing him and ourselves for his burial.