My Grandmother’s House Smelled Like Grief

by [SophiaSoso]

My grandmother’s house

smelled like grief—

a blend of old cloves,

liniment,

and unsaid things.

The air was thick

with lullabies never finished,

and the hallway light flickered

as if remembering

too much at once.

She kept her curtains drawn,

not from the sun,

but from the memories

that clung to light like moths.

Each room whispered

in different tongues:

my grandfather's boots still by the door,

his cane leaning like a question

she refused to answer.

In the kitchen,

she stirred soup in silence,

as if conversation had died

with the last pot roast he ate.

I once asked why the clock

in the living room was stuck at 2:14.

She said that’s when

her world

decided to stop.

There were pictures,

but all the faces

looked slightly turned away.

Like they knew something

I wasn't old enough

to learn yet.

She never cried in front of me—

instead, she wiped her eyes

with the corner of her apron,

called it allergies,

and chopped onions

a little harder than needed.

The wallpaper peeled

like pages from a diary

no one dared to finish.

At night, she lit a single candle

in the window.

Not for faith.

But for the ghosts

she still set a place for

at the table.

Grief

lived in her house

like wallpaper—

never quite gone,

only covered up

just enough

to keep going.