At the end of the brown-carpeted hallway in my childhood home sat a cedar chest. On top were books like Why Was I Adopted? and Adoption Is for Always. Getting to the chest meant walking past wooden-framed school photos of my brother and me, each step revealing my growing smile—the half-inch gap between my front teeth slowly shrinking until it disappeared, thanks to those metal braces I wore from ages seven to nine.
After my mom passed away, that chest—her hope chest, also called a dowry chest, trousseau chest, or glory box—found its way to my grandmother’s house. Traditionally, these chests were used by unmarried young women to collect items such as clothing, household linens, and other essentials in preparation for married life.
Fast-forward twenty-five years: when the chest came into my possession, I opened it to find the same items I remembered from all those years ago.
But the smell—oh, the smell—burned my nose. A bag of potpourri, like a robust rose perfume sharp enough to singe nose hairs, had broken open. I can’t recall if it was an oil or a bath salt-like consistency, but whoever had intended to preserve the freshness of the doilies, baby clothes, blankets, and wedding dress had unintentionally infiltrated them with a choking strength.
Fast forward to today: I sanded the exterior and interior. On the surface, I buffed away the waxy veneer and deep scratches. Inside, I blasted through layers of permeated wood, trying to release the cedar scent once more. I’m not quite there yet, and I’m skeptical I ever will be. Still, I’ll do my best before staining it, hoping to create a barrier that locks away the scent.
It wasn’t lost on me that I happened to start this project two days ago, on February 8th—the anniversary of her passing. I had sixteen years with her, and I’ve now lived twenty-seven years without her. Restoring this chest feels right, just as passing it down to Evelyn someday feels right too.
Thankfully, the ache—the kind that’s sharp and sudden, like a charley horse with knife-like stabs—has eased. My mind now shifts to those still here. I worry about them, about their health, their mortality, and, honestly, about my own. Not death itself, but the slow transition from capable to not. There’s something about that decline, that sharp right angle of change, that hits a nerve.
On a lighter note, I need to change the hand soap in two of the bathrooms. The “Fresh Rain” scent reminds me of a poker dealer who heavily starched his shirts. Every whiff feels like inhaling chlorine from a pool on chemical steroids. I know, I know—two olfactory issues in one day? Is that a record? Please tell me there’s a smell you can’t stand too, so I don’t feel alone in my hypersensitivity.
Alright, I’m outta here. Love ya!
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 