What came pouring out of the open chest wasn’t the dry smell of cedar.

It was lavender, dark and sour, rising in a fine powder that settled over my forearms and the front of my apron.

Four heavy wool blankets lay in a tidy stack right on top.

I lifted them out one by one, my arms straining under the weight, and dropped them onto the edge of my mother’s mattress behind me.

Under the wool were two patchwork quilts my grandmother had sewn from heavy flannel work pants back in 1962.

I pulled those out too, rubbing my left thumb across my right knuckles as the rough cotton seam scratched my skin.