Soap

After my grandfather died, my grandmother gave me 24 bars of his soap. When she handed me the bars from their shelf in the linen cabinet, she revealed no hint of sentiment. The soap was merely too strong for her. She has thin, sensitive skin prone to liver spots and scaring, bleeding at the slightest scrape or nick. My skin isn't much better. I've hung on too long to youthful arrogance, rarely bothering to moisturize, only remembering to give my face a good scrubbing when a zit sets in. But I like things that are free and so I've been using my dead grandfather's soap once or twice a day now for the better part of a year.

In the bath this morning, as I got ready to drive across town to help my grandmother move into her new condo, it occurred to me that wearing his soap into her new home—the only one except her parents' that she's ever had without him—could be construed as an aggressive act. Smells carry such predictable assaults. If I died tomorrow, I imagine I'd be little more than the intractable scent of the Guerlain perfume I've worn steadily since I was 20.

I have no idea where I'm going with this. I'm not the type to live among the dead. When I wear one of my grandfather’s tshirts or sweatshirts around the house, it has nothing to do with nostalgia. I just took back a handful of clothing with my alma mater’s logo because no one else wanted it and my own college gear needed replacing. In the end, perhaps it’s only envy that has me sniffing at his soap. It’s a privilege, a kick in the teeth kind of gift, to miss anyone that much.