soap in the linen closet

Today, I went to the linen closet and pulled out my afghan, and it made me cry a little bit.
My grammy made that afghan.
I brought the thick, purple blanket to my nose, hoping I could smell something of her in it, but it just smelled of soap and laundry detergent.
I tried to remember what her voice sounded like, tried to hear her laugh or say "Hi, dahlin'," like she used to, but the memory of the sound was just an echo, just beyond my reach.
So I thought of what the kitchen smelled like when she made macaroni and cheese, and how she wanted the sunroom painted red, even the ceiling. I thought of the knitting bag she used to keep by thr rocker, and that gray shirt she had with the pink flowers all over it. I thought of the games of solitaire. I thought of the puzzles on the table. I thought of her lavender-colored sneakers that she wore because they were so light and comfortable.
I thought of how she never wore socks.
And then I remembered how, one night almost a year ago, she sat on my couch - that one, right there - laughing and talking and admiring our Christmas tree. She was so happy and lovely and she looked almost as radiant as she usually did when she hosted a big family holiday. When she left, I gave a her a hug and said, "I love you."
The next morning, she was gone.
So today, I bury my head in my afghan, which doesn't smell much like anything anymore. I wish I could remember better. I wish we didn't keep soap in the linen closet. I bury my head in my blanket and cry.
My grammy made that afghan.