The lavender smell got stronger toward the bottom of the chest.

Little muslin sacks stuffed with gray, crushed flower buds were jammed tight into all four corners of the oak tray.

I picked them out one at a time and threw them into the wire wastebasket next to the vanity.

A sheet of heavy yellow paper lined the bottom boards.

It had been pressed flat, without one wrinkle or fold, laid down with the exact care my mother gave to everything she meant to keep clean forever, I suppose.

I ran my hand across the yellow paper, expecting old bankbooks or tax receipts from the county office.