My grandmother’s bedroom, 1981

You can still smell the old polished wood, feel the smoothness of it. You could trace the curves of the nooks and crannies of the carved edging.

The Chanel Number something she used to dab on her wrists on special occasions. Birthdays and Christmas, but never at Easter. The scent always lingered though she didn’t use it often.

The powdered skin of her cheek that tickled you as you kissed her goodbye.

You can still feel that bed-spring, the one that sang when you tiptoed in and sat on the end of the bed. You can remember the texture of that bedspread – you used to run your hands over it for what felt like hours, the slight roughness of the weave felt pleasant on the palm of your hand.

You can remember her dancing, and laughing, and holding your hand when you were so small you had to stretch up to catch hold of her fingertips

You remember it all like it was only yesterday.

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