There were always countless slivers of Zest soap in my Gran's bathroom. They sat haphazardly atop this same rubber-pegged soap ... thing ... a half-dozen strong, willing themselves to return to that full, you-can-actually-do-something-with-it bar of soap status. It used to drive me crazy, that she'd never throw them away ("Who throws away soap?"), that they'd mount up in the corner of the bathtub, that they looked like they were scored together, but were actually all very independently, literally half-assed lathering pieces of work.
(Have you ever tried to wash any part of yourself with a sliver of soap?! You won't wash much.)
And yet this morning I went to wash my hands at the sink and picked up this sliver on the left and, irked by its flakiness, I turned to the shower for what I was sure was actually soap and got the sliver on the right. I stood there, holding it, utterly irritated with myself and then I remembered her.
"Lord, help."
Since we all inevitably become our mothers it was no surprise to me when Mags began stockpiling Zest after Gran died, but I never expected to become a used Zest collector myself. At least not so soon. Yet I found I couldn't throw them away, because, honestly, who throws soap away? Like, why? I mean, sure, it's a lot like rubbing two pennies together when you're trying to wash your hands, but they do get clean ...
See also: the bottle of Witch Hazel I took from her bathroom. I'm pretty sure I've bought Witch Hazel since 2011, and I'm pretty sure I just poured it into that bottle because it last belonged to her and she was always on me about taking better care of my face. (I know, I know.)
I've heard her laugh in my head all day today, and it's been both funny and bittersweet. She ALWAYS got the last dig, and I miss that about her. It's just one of the few things that made her spunk so marvelous to bear.
This ain't-got-no-grandparents-left life is rough y'all. If yours are still with you, call or go see about them; have a laugh and a hug for me.