The Iris Diaries — Entry No. 2
- Hilary Burke
- Nov 23
- 3 min read
Seven Iris Scents, One Grief Journey, and the Quiet Ways Scent Keeps Us Connected
I’ve been spending time with iris again—the flower, the note, and the man who unexpectedly led me to it.
Before my stepdad died, I learned something I had somehow never known: purple irises were his favorite flower.
And at the end of his life, he asked that each of us place a long-stemmed purple iris into his grave at the close of his service. A simple request, but one packed with symbolism that I didn’t fully understand at the time.
It was late October when he died, and early November when we buried him. Irises were nearly impossible to find. And yet—we found them. Of course we did. Because that was who he was: quiet, unassuming, never demanding attention, yet somehow always surrounded by people, by love, by what he needed exactly when he needed it.
Since he died, I’ve found myself reaching for iris in perfume. Not because he ever wore it (he was an Old Spice man from the beginning to the very end), but because the nature of iris—the quiet elegance, the groundedness, the whisper of spice, the earthy-woody undertone—feels like him.
He wasn’t “earthy” in the bohemian sense, but he was a man of the outdoors—working outside on his property, hours mowing on his beloved John Deere tractors, tending his gardens, fixing anything that broke, hands always in the dirt, always doing, always caring. The more I smelled iris… the more it made sense.
The Seven Iris Fragrances I Sampled
I sampled seven perfume decants from Scent Split known for their iris/orris DNA. Each one offered something different—some I fell for, some weren’t my style, but the act of exploring them felt tender. Like keeping a thread connected between us.
Here they are:
And then, the three that moved me...
The Standouts —
These three felt less like fragrance testing and more like… messages. Little nudges of recognition, of him, of his life.
“The quiet presence." This was the one that softened me immediately. Elegant, powdery, luminous. It has that old-world French refinement but never feels dated. More like a hug you didn’t know you needed. I loved it instantly. I bought it immediately.
This feels like the iris that sits close to the skin, the way grief sometimes sits close to the heart. Gentle, steady, unwavering.
“Earth + gentle strength." Clean, woody, minimalist, modern. This one felt like him working outside—sun on his shoulders, hands in soil, completely at peace. It’s iris, but stripped to its essence—no theatrics, no embellishment. Just the beauty of the note itself.
I also purchased this one too.
3. Le Labo — Iris 39
“The sacred, earthy one." Deep. Rooted. If my parents home, their land could have a smell, it would be this. Possibly the most earthy iris I’ve ever smelled and the closest reflection of him.
If fragrance could lean against a shovel after a long day in the yard, this would be it.
I tried to buy it… only to realize it may be discontinued. Maybe that’s fitting. Some things arrive in our lives for a moment and are meant
to be felt, not owned.
Why This Exploration Matters
I didn’t expect iris to become a thread between the present and the past. I didn’t expect a scent to feel like a language—a way of continuing a conversation with someone I can no longer speak to.
But that’s what this journey has felt like. A soft, steady way of staying connected.
A reminder that grief isn’t always loud—it’s often quiet, earthy, rooted just beneath the surface… like iris itself.
Exploring these seven fragrances wasn’t just about perfume. It was about finding him in places I never thought to look. About allowing scent to be a bridge. About realizing that grief, in its own strange way, teaches us to keep searching for the people we love long after they’re gone.
Iris feels like one of the ways he still finds me. And I’m learning to pay attention.
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