I retired from teaching three years ago. Thirty years, and now I live on an island you reach by ferry.
My partner works nights at the hospital. We pass each other like ships in the hallway.
Thursday afternoon, I was touching up the baseboards with a can of paint labeled 'touch-ups' in my own handwriting.
Across the street, the elementary school had a fire drill. The siren brought me right back to my own classroom.
Then I went to the dresser and opened the little bottle. Chanel No. 5. My mother's.
I don't wear it. I just unscrew the cap and let the smell float up. She's been gone ten years.
That tiny glass bottle is the only road I still take to her. It's enough.