16 X 20
16 x 20
She was quick on the draw with even the slightest sniffle.
There was no where to run when that sharp, hollowed clank echoed through the room.
Her handbag, now opened, set free that suffocating aroma of lipstick, Juicy Fruit Gum, and occasional peppermints. There I was with a moist handkerchief thrust beneath my nose.
This is a dreadful memory.
One that will stay with me the rest of my life.
I know she meant well, but why she never offered it to me unused, I will never know.
Last night I got to thinking about handkerchiefs and how absurd they seem.
Their delicate nature defies their very use.
The word handkerchief is even confusing.
It sounds like a sneeze.
When I saw a box of them at the thrift store the other day, I wondered how many fugitive nose drops each one may have caught.
I pictured all the different grandmothers thrusting them below the noses of unsuspected children.
Then I found it ironic how something so dainty could hold such a dreadful memory.