A Bushel and a Peck

My grandmother has been gone a year now.

Two weeks ago I was walking down Chester Road when I smelled her on the air. A woman with her build was walking a few yards ahead of me. Her white hair curled up at the ends just like Nannie’s. Her “slacks and blouse,” as Nannie would have referred to them, looked like they were pulled straight from my grandmother’s closet. Even the dainty silver watch on her wrist looked to be an exact replica.

And that smell.

Dove soap. Oil of Olay skin cream. The faintest hint of peppermint. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. My inhale got caught in my throat and tears chased my breath as it came crashing out of my lungs.

I froze there on the sidewalk with my eyes closed.

My children asked me what was wrong. I didn’t answer right away, because if I spoke, if I opened my eyes, I would blink into a world where that woman couldn’t possibly be my Nannie because my Nannie was gone. So I stood there with my youngest child’s hand in mine, stretching the moment until he tugged me into the present.

Back at home I wrapped myself in one of my Nannie’s blazers and cried. I held a gold chain of hers in my hands, woven through my fingers like rosary beads.

I listened to old voicemails full of happy birthdays and I can’t wait to see yous and I love yous. I fell asleep and dreamed of memories.