Mothballs

She slowly climbed the steps to the attic. 

The overhead light hummed to life as she pulled the dangling chain with her shaking hand. 

The trunk was in the corner- waiting. 

She steadied her hands and opened the rusting latches with a loud pop, pop, pop! 

The lid was lighter than she remembered, had it been so long since she had visited? 

Perhaps too long. 

She considered closing it and leaving. 

But no, she needed this, needed something to hold on to, something to remember her by. 

She fumbled through the contents of the old trunk. 

Vintage doilies, delicately embroidered handkerchiefs, a carefully wrapped set of silver candlesticks... then she found it.

Neatly folded near the bottom lay her grandmother's wedding shawl. 

Made with the most delicate knots of ivory silk. 

Reverently she lifted it out and brought it to her tear streaked face. 

She breathed in deeply, desperate for a whiff of her grandmother's love. 

But, alas only mothballs. 

Mothballs and grief.