treatswords

I found a bar of soap that smelled of her.

It teleported me from the Whole Foods produce section to getting ready in her bathroom.

Pink shag carpet, fuzzy grass around my ankles.

A boot made of heavy metal in the corner. I used to imagine crawling inside of it when I was younger.

“Come find me grandma!”

I’d picture myself shouting, sitting inside the heel and watching as she lifted the towel bench to see if I was beneath.

Large mirror. Straightening my damp hair.

We all collected here, at grandmas, over the fourth of July. It was always humid, and someone was always pressed against the outside of the bathroom door, waiting for their turn to get ready.

A strong floral smell, bouquets of peonies growing from her two sinks. The salty, woodsy smell of a red checkered flannel turned inside out. Something grandpa had worn earlier that day.

I felt so intensely home, I could feel my hand pressed against one of the many long windows that curved around their living room. The river shining in the morning light like fish scales. Birds pecking at one another at the birdfeeder that sat right outside the dining room table. A chandelier above us, long tears of fake diamonds hanging low like grapes on a wiry vine.

When grandma passed, we were each gifted a piece of the chandelier.

I still have mine sitting in plastic.

No place seems fitting for it besides to loom above me the way it used to. Peering down as I moved onto my third pancake, fingers coated in amber syrup.

I left my cart idle, somewhere between the overly ripened tomatoes and the garlic wrapped in tissue paper skin.

The bar of soap was an orange color, and someone had loved it enough to carve small paisley designs in it. I wonder where the smell transported them?

Did they have visions of a blonde woman, red nose, getting her hair curled in the dining room? The porch door cracked open, humidity drifting in like a stray cat.

I can still smell her hair warming.

I put the bar of soap in my cart.

I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to experience that smell again, so I planned to savor the orange soap.

The one that placed my hands on the railing that overlooked the belly of their living room. All of us around the thick pine tree grandpa cut himself. Silver tinsel bent over every branch, not an ornament out of place. Grandmas’ passion for the holiday was present in every room, in every detail.

The one that put me in her bedroom the day she passed.

I replay that moment over and over again.

I’d just come off the plane from Seattle, a move I’d made just two months before she fell ill.

She was on the bed.

Thinner than I’d remembered.

More wrinkled.

Her wedding ring hanging off her small finger.

Her eyes were closed, but I think she smelled me too.

Stale gray airport, sweet grass, a hint of musk.

A smile growing on her face.

“Oh Cali, you made it.”