You always leave your vanilla-scented soap on the soap dish filled with water, but I don’t tell you how expensive it is. “Just drain the water,” I say.
“Leave it be. Let the room smell like flowers.”
A few weeks after when I enter the quiet house, holding a plastic bag with 12 boxes of your soap, the only sound I can hear is the shower’s rain. I knock on the door once, but you don’t answer until the blaring sound of the ambulance amputates my heart.
At 73, I should say how time flies too fast. And I don’t forget to place your soap in the soap dish filled with water.
WORD COUNT: 112
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