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…