She died, what was it, four months ago?
Long enough that my heart doesn’t drop when I remember her, my head doesn’t get spacey, but really, not long at all.
There’s a handwritten note she left on the soap dispenser. It was dusty before she died, and now I wonder if it’ll sit there forever.
Please use gently, it’s the last we have.
And the soap smells like cinnamon.
When I see it, my heart still drops a little.
I wanted to get her something for Christmas, because she was sweet and generous, and didn’t let people appreciate her. Maybe, I thought, bereft of ideas, I could find that same cinnamon soap.
Then a friend suggested I take her out for supper, spend time with her, eat with her, ask her things, and tell her about my life.
I remember how excited I was about the idea. I looked forward to it for months.
But she died in November, so I didn’t see her at Christmas, and now when I use cinnamon soap, I remember her.