LAVENDER, TIME, AND MOTHER
“I have always believed that the most intimate histories are tucked into the smallest things—a folded square of cotton, a scent lingering in a drawer, the faint click of a silver clasp. The earliest of those histories lives in Mother’s hankie drawer, a tiny wooden box hidden inside her vanity that smelt forever of lavender soap and whispered lullabies.” (Sara Etgen-Baker)
The afternoon sun slanted through the living room blinds, painting stripes of gold on the wooden floor. From my perch on the floor, I watched the steady rise and fall of Mother’s chest on the couch, a magazine resting open on her lap. The moment her breathing deepened into the soft, rhythmic sighs of sleep, I was on my feet, padding silently down the hall toward my parents’ bedroom—a sanctuary of quiet and lavender perfume.
I climbed onto the upholstered bench in front of Mother’s mirrored dressing table, my small reflection wide-eyed with curiosity and conspiracy. The first drawer slid open with a reluctant creak, revealing a neat row of Mother’s ladylike things. There were pink Spoolies* that whispered of Sunday picnics; a cherry-red lipstick reminiscence of Hollywood’s gilded age; a powdery compact that caught the light in soft, opalescent glints; and scented sachets that smelt of lavender and rosemary. The most important drawer, however, was the second one, her hankie drawer, the drawer that seemed to have a life of its own.
The hankies lay there like an enchanted garden: squares of stitched cotton, squares of silk, squares of lace edged with tiny, white petals. Each one was a different shade, a different texture, a different memory waiting to be unfolded. I picked up the holiday hankies—bright green for Christmas, soft pink for Valentine’s Day, and a golden-yellow one that glittered like a sunrise on Mother’s birthday. Each held a story. The Christmas one, embroidered with holly berries and tiny pinecones, was the one Mother used to dab the frosting off her fingers after she made the first batch of gingerbread. The Valentine’s hankie, stitched with a single red heart, was the one she tucked into the pocket of her coat when she went to the dance with Dad, the night she agreed to marry him, telling him she would love him forever.
I picked up a large, soft square of blue gingham, unfolding it carefully.
This one’s from my childhood Easter dress,” Mother’s voice suddenly said from the doorway, gentle and amused.
I froze, the handkerchief suspended in my hands. She was leaning against the door frame, a soft smile emerging on her face. “The scraps were too pretty to throw away. Making a hankie from them is much more creative than using them for a dust rag, don’t you think?”
I nodded, clutching the fabric. “It smells like you.”
“That’s the lavender soap,” Mother answered, walking towards me. She knelt beside me and pulled out a smaller, exquisite square of white linen edged with delicate lace. “Now this one… this is for special occasions. See the embroidered roses?” Her finger traced the delicate threads. “Granny gave this to me. You carry a hankie like this in your purse when you go out; it says you’re a lady.”
“But what’s it for?” I asked, bewildered by something too beautiful to blow a nose on.
She laughed, a light, musical sound. “For dabbing the corner of your mouth after a lady’s lunch, or for when a friend needs comforting.” She refolded it with practiced grace. “It’s for having something beautiful at hand—just in case.”
Decades later after the house had quieted and the scent of lavender had grown faint, I was cleaning out her closet. My hands, now older than hers were then, brushed against a cardboard box tucked high on a shelf. I pulled it down; the lid sighed, revealing a handful of handkerchiefs that seemed to have been waiting for this very moment. Layered between tissue paper, were her fancy handkerchiefs. The scent that greeted me was lavender, time, and her. I brought the white lacy one to my face, and I was once again a child sitting on her vanity bench.
“You’ll carry this,” she’d insisted, pressing it into my hands the day of my wedding. “For your bouquet. Something old.” I did, and many years later, I placed it on the vintage desk my mother-in-law gave me, a tiny monument to elegance.
Beneath it were her Christmas handkerchiefs, one embroidered with poinsettias, the other with a tiny cardinal. Every December, I now do as she did. I open my dresser drawer, retrieve the holiday hankies, and tuck them into my purse. I never use them, of course.. They stay folded, a secret weight against my side. But their presence is a quiet conversation with Mother. I can almost hear her soft chuckle telling me, “A handkerchief is a pocket-sized piece of you, a tiny flag you can wave when the world makes you sneeze or weep. They are for having something beautiful at hand—just in case.”
So I’ve kept them—just in case they bring her back, for a moment, close enough for me to touch.
Spoolies* were popular hair curlers in the 50s and 60s; they were lightweight and flexible used to create soft curls and waves while you sleep.
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