The Last Scent of Lavender

In November of 2019, Nana Eliza passed away. She was my husband’s maternal grandmother, a woman who had lived in the same creaky farmhouse on the outskirts of a small, dusty town for over sixty years. She had a peculiar habit of burning lavender sachets in every room, so her entire house smelled of dried flowers and old wood. In the month before her death, I found myself thinking of her constantly, more than I ever had when she was alive. Her face would surface in my mind’s eye at random moments – while I was stirring coffee, folding laundry, or watching late-night TV. I even dreamt of her one night, standing at the foot of our bed, wearing her faded floral apron, just smiling. I didn’t tell my husband, but I felt a strange urgency to visit her, and we planned to drive out that weekend. But early Saturday morning, before we could even pack, the phone rang. It was his father. She had passed quietly in her sleep the night before. We drove out to the funeral, a somber affair in a small, white chapel, and then back to her house to help sort through her belongings. The air inside was thick with that familiar lavender scent, so strong it almost choked me. After a while, we returned home, exhausted, and decided to change into comfortable clothes. Our dryer was in the laundry room off the kitchen, and I had a load of towels that had been sitting there for days. As I walked in to retrieve them, I was hit with a wave of lavender. It was unmistakable – that same warm, powdery fragrance that had clung to Nana Eliza’s clothes and furniture. I froze. My husband and daughter were in the living room, oblivious. I knew she was there, right behind me. I didn’t turn around. Instead, I spoke to her silently, ‘Okay, I know you’re here to say goodbye. I hope you’re finally at peace.’ And then, as quickly as it had come, the scent faded. I grabbed the towels and left the room, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t just saying goodbye. She was leaving something behind. That night, as I lay in bed, I noticed the faint scent of lavender on my pillow, even though I had never used any such sachet. I closed my eyes, and in my mind, I saw her sitting in her rocking chair, knitting, her hands moving swiftly. She looked up at me and said, ‘I left you something in the attic.’ I woke with a start. The dream felt too real. The next day, I drove to her empty house, which was already on the market. I let myself in, the lock still worked with the old key she had given me years ago. The house was hollow, stripped of her furniture, but the lavender scent lingered stubbornly. I climbed the narrow attic stairs, the wood creaking under my weight. In the corner, under a dusty tarp, was an old wooden chest I had never seen before. I opened it. Inside, wrapped in brown paper, was a quilt – hand-stitched, with patches of fabric that must have been from her dresses. At its center was a small, silver locket. I opened the locket. Inside was a tiny, faded photograph of a young woman with a sad smile, and a lock of hair tied with a lavender ribbon. On the back, written in faded ink, were the words, ‘For the one who sees.’ I took the quilt and the locket home. That night, I placed the locket on my nightstand. I slept deeply, but I dreamed of the house, of the attic, of Nana Eliza standing by the chest, holding a pair of scissors. She was cutting a lock of my hair and placing it into the locket, then closing it with a soft click. I woke with a gasp, my hand flying to my head. There, on my pillow, was a small lock of my own hair, tied with a lavender ribbon, identical to the one in the locket. A cold dread washed over me. I realized then that her goodbye was not a farewell, but an invitation. She had chosen me to carry on her work – whatever that was. And the scent of lavender has never left my house since. It clings to my clothes, my sheets, my hair, a constant reminder that I am no longer alone in my home. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I catch a glimpse of her reflection behind me, smiling, as she starts to take my shape.