The Shawl
By Elizabeth Smith My older sister, Trudy, left us all boxes. The evening after the funeral, Milo, her husband, invited us over and laid them out on the kitchen countertop. My daughters each received a small pastry box with oil stains. In Sophia’s was a jade necklace. Emily’s contained a filigree brooch. My daughter-in-law, Kate, received a stack of books in a box that once housed a blender. Arthur got a shipping box of old knick knacks that were once his grandfather’s: monogrammed hankies, an old watch in need of repair, a harmonica inside a metal case, a few neckties, and a pair of cufflinks. My box was a glossy gray and smelled of Trudy—Chanel No. 5. I always thought it was the nasal equivalent of deafening, drowning out any other pleasant scent there might be in the world. It looked like the box had come from Nordstrom or Macy’s or some other department store that packaged delicate blouses in thin boxes. It was so like her to fill these boxes before she passed. When we shared an...
