Mothballs From Heaven

Her hugs smelled like mothballs and Big Red. She was the perfect grandma; strong arms perfect for carrying me when I was tired, strong legs perfect for walking me to the park, yet she was squishy around the middle which made her perfect for cuddling.

One summer I spent two weeks at her house. It also smelled like mothballs. I spent a lot of time looking for them. In the closet, there was no sign of them though the smell was there. In her drawers, under the bed, there was nothing there either, but the smell was everywhere.

I knew what the smell was because I saw her buy them at Cheap John’s when she’d come visit me, and my mother and sister. The boxes of mothballs would be stacked on a table and one would always be open so there would be little white balls all over the table and the floor. She’d go to Cheap John’s and buy two boxes of mothballs, two boxes of garbage bags and two ten packs of Big Red every Saturday when she came to visit us.

It wasn’t a bad smell. It was just a strange smell and for me it was comforting. My aunt wore Elizabeth Arden, my mother wore L’Air Du Temps, my grandmother wore mothballs and Big Red and she wore them well. I only looked for the mothballs that one summer. After all my fruitless efforts I decided I liked the mystery as much as I liked the smell.

My grandmother passed away on the Mother’s Day after my wedding. She had grown old and frail and was no longer squishy in the middle, but her hugs still smelled like mothballs and Big Red. I helped my aunt go through her things and in the bottom of her closet, way in the back I found a small white envelope. In it were three tiny white balls. Mothballs. Disintegrated mothballs, but mothballs just the same.

In her drawers I found the same white envelopes and the same white balls of varying sizes. I laughed out loud at each one I found. The mystery had been solved. One last lesson from grandma.

A few years later I had a child. His dark hair and hazel green eyes echoed my grandmother’s. He had strong little arms and strong little legs and he was squishy around the middle.
One night in the hospital, as he lay in bed with me, I smelled something familiar. My little one was surrounded by the smell of mothballs and Big Red. One last gift from grandma.

Write as Rain

The torrential rain. The slight, low-lying fog. The lack of streetlights. No cars on the road. Nothing to guide me but white lines and headlights. I don’t have to go that slow, but I do need to drive with caution as I can only see about fifteen feet in front of me and the road I’m on curves. I attempt to brighten the road ahead, but the low-lying fog, invisible in my headlights’ normal brightness, reflects the added light back making it so I can see even less of the road ahead. Lightning crashes and gives me a glimpse of the road beyond, but only for a fleeting moment then the darkness returns and I’m back to my fifteen feet. Much as in writing. I can see a little ways ahead. Next paragraph, next page, or even the next chapter, but it’s mostly dark and it’s not all that far. Once in a while lightning will strike and I will get a glimpse of where I’m going and I either get excited or nervous. Doesn’t matter which one, both make me write more. The darkness comes back and I’m forced to slow down, but the rain smells good and I like the sound, so I’m happy to wait for the lightning.