This is one of my grandma’s old towels, which were handed over to me when she moved into a nursing facility and I had just bought my first home. Maybe it’s crazy, but every time her towels come through the wash, I have to bury my face in the soft, aged fabric and inhale as deep as my lungs (and heart) can hold before I fold it and put it in the stack. Because perhaps my it’s just my nose and brain playing a lovely game of wishful thinking, but I swear these still smell a little like Gramma’s house even after years of not having been there anymore. After untold different detergents and softeners have flowed these towels over the years, they still smell like light bleach, and outside in the sun, and safety, and everything just-so, and love and happiness. I can remember drying off with this towel after running in the sprinkler when I was around school age and staying at Gramma’s house in the summer time. So, I breathe deeply of the past, remember Gramma for a moment, and put it away with the rest of the linens. I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to bear throwing Gramma’s towels away.