Remembering Margaret R.

My hair smells like a combination of almonds and coconuts. I smell of soap. Of sweetness, but of cleanliness.

I smell like her bathroom.

It is the first time that I remember something about her without remembering the way she looked when her spirit left her body. Her cataract-covered eyes gaping wide, mouth hanging open as if suspended in an eternal scream. They told me she knew Him, so I know that is likely not what she is experiencing now. But maybe she witnessed the Reaper creeping toward her with his scythe, ready to tear spirit from flesh. Maybe that’s why she looked as if she was in torment.

But my memory is not about that day.

My memory is about her bathroom. It was immaculate. She had a white dresser by the closet. I don’t know what was in the dresser. I don’t know what was in the closet. She had a toilet paper roll by the toilet, and a cabinet built into the rear wall that held all her fragrances. I don’t remember what her shower looked like. I remember she had a cabinet with a mirror over the sink. She used bar soap.

I am remembering the smell of the bar soap.

I remember that place, and how it felt like safety. I remember that place.

I remember her face of horror, but I remember that place. Even though it is just a section of the house, it is enough.

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