Flash in the Pan
A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights
The Distinctive Smell Of Crayons
by Margaret Mary Monahan
On the floor in her closet, a wooden box painted delicate pink. A ballerina on top, because she liked to dance. I open the box. Prying. Eager. Hunting down the past. When I remove the lid, the distinctive smell of crayons wafts up out of the box, and I smile. Their scent is so dependable. Familiar. Crayons smell like… like comfort, I guess.
Just for a moment the colors in the box swim. They shimmer like a streak of oil left behind in a puddle. I blink and see the worn-down sticks. Yellow, red, greens, and blues. Nothing here but old pencils and broken crayons in the little pink box I had Santa deliver one year. Her name hand-painted on the lid, from a small toy store that specialized in unique gifts.
She used it as a pencil box because she loved to draw. The hand that used the crayons sparkles with a diamond now. In the room we still call her bedroom I place the box, just so, on top of the bureau. When she visits, maybe she'll open the lid. Just like me. And just like me, she'll remember. The distinctive smell of the crayons. The little pink box. The love I wrapped it in that year.
Margaret Mary Monahan of Wilmington, DE is just another mom adjusting to "Empty Nest Syndrome," and turning 60 at the same time!
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