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  • Every time I visit I want to take home a piece of you. It's a strange thing- I've always done it since I was very little. Only in your case and no other.

    I journey into your small bathroom, green doily toilet seat cover, that special brand of green I can only equate to older people. Only to you and later in life to hospitals.

    The little wax coca-cola cups I can never understand how you still have- there must have been a lifetime supply. Sitting on the sink counter next to the soap dish and toothbrushes.

    I shift through the bathroom cabinet, full of old makeup, hairpins, curlers and products all dusted with a light film of scented talcum powder. Everything in your cabinet made to look antique with this dusting of "Sweet Honesty" from Avon.

    Usually I make off with a bobby-pin or something equally mundane. Sometimes an eyeliner or a matchbook that so clearly hasn't been touched in 730 or more of those applications of talc.

    I can't explain this need to pilfer away tiny pieces of you- or why it's been with me since I was young. It's just always been.

    I guess the idea that someday your things won't be there anymore and I'll have nothing to remind me of your smell got the better of me- even before I could understand the concept.
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