Dear Nan,
I was going through the old soap box that you must have found amongst your dad’s things all of those years ago. It’s the prettiest box; pale green, with hints of raspberry pink, and pretty old fonts.
You know what I do, every time I open that soap box? I sniff it. Every time. Part of me knows that the scent of Cashmere Bouquet has long gone, although I hesitate, wondering if it will actually smell, this sniff around, of that florally scented soap you used to have sitting in the shower recess, and on the side of the bath, and in the hand basin, and in the bathroom cupboard, piled up ready, just in case.
But the other part of me, the grounded-in-reality part, knows that the box no longer smells of soap, and in its place is the scent of old letters. It’s comforting to me, quite possibly more so than if I was smelling Cashmere Bouquet. Your handwriting is inside that box. And Mum’s. And Big Grandfather’s. And Aunty Eleanor’s. And Uncle Jack’s, and Bob’s, and Ron’s. And some people who I don’t know, but who you must have. There are so many moments in that small cardboard box, snippets of stories, that brings me utter joy.
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