Dust, by Trasie Sands

My grandmother was old. She lived in a little white and blue apartment building whose sole purpose was to house the elderly. Not quite a nursing home, but assisted. She was, in truth, my great-grandmother and she scared the hell out of me. I was six and hadn’t encountered many old people. All I could see were crocheted pillows and doilies under old ceramic lamps with fringed lampshades. She made fantastic butter tarts, but she also wore about one half of a bottle of Chantilly whenever she had company. The odour was equal parts powdery and soapy and you could smell it halfway down the hallway. The last time I visited, I remember remarking to my mother that it was dusty - so dusty I could smell it. I could smell it over the Chantilly. When she died, that smell stayed with me. To me, it’s the smell of death.