Wallishing with Mum

The old MGB stood in the driveway. Like my emotions, it had been ignored. I went over to it, running my fingers over the smooth paintwork, leaving a little track in the dust.

Twisting the key in the door, I heard the lock pop and watched the bolt dart up before my eyes. People with automatic doors would never appreciate the feeling of watching that little plastic bob up in the window.

Pulling the driver's door, I climb into the driving seat, running my hands over the faded leather steering wheel. That is when it hits me, the smell of perfume, always my mother's favourite.

I had been avoiding this smell everywhere I went. Running out of supermarkets. It had to be in the car. I give in, and the tears fall.

The cancer had been nothing to worry about, a routine, they said—a small operation and then some additional treatment. I knew it was more than that; the feeling had settled into my heart like an iced dagger.

I pick up the cloth Mum always used. It still smells of the wax she used when she wallished the car.

It started as a laugh, a slip of the tongue when she first said she would wallish the car, but it stuck for years. Every weekend, with a smile, she would say, 'Want to help me wallish the car?'

'Don't worry, Mum, I will wallish it every weekend,' I say as tears come.