Caress

This morning I wrote a part of a scene in my novel that involves ships and masts. Then, while getting ready for work (and finding a card for S, who was having a bad day yesterday), I came across Grandma Lilly's birthday card to me, sent in December. Ships were at sea at full mast. I'd forgotten I'd kept this card, her last one to me, since she passed away in early 2008 at age 99.

"Caress" used to be my favorite word. Then, for a long time, it was "Eclipse". Now I'm not sure what it is; I don't think I need to have one; there are literally thousands of words I love to bite into like fresh orange wedges or ice cream. In fact, "crave" (as in craving delicious words) could be a strong contender.

Mom bought a different bar of soap recently -- one we haven't used before -- and the first time I lathered it on its scent wafted out into the shower, strong and familiar; the smell took over the entire bathroom. It took me only a few seconds to realize it's the kind of soap that Grandma Lilly used for as long as I can remember. Her bathroom was that smell, alongside tiny candles and the ruffled shower curtain. She was that smell. It's such a strong memory of mine. Earlier this week I glanced at the bar of soap -- "What brand is it?" I thought to myself -- and, yes, even after being used for several days, its edges softened and mushy now, the soap's brand name could still be read: Caress.