short fiction · 2026-10-09

Cedar Closet

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The cedar scent hit her before she opened the door—a sharp, clean aroma that seemed to slice through the dusty air of the attic. She paused, hand on the knob, and closed her eyes. Suddenly she was eight years old again, barefoot on the warm wood floor of her grandfather's workshop, watching him sand a cedar chest. The smell of sawdust and oil mixed with the cedar, but the cedar was always the dominant note, the one that clung to his flannel shirt and the hair on his arms. He'd let her run her fingers over the smooth sides, teaching her to feel the grain. "This wood remembers," he'd say, "it holds the sun and the rain inside it." She hadn't thought of that workshop in years, not since the funeral. Now, standing in front of a cedar closet in a stranger's guest room, she realized she hadn't forgotten—she'd just buried it under layers of newer smells, newer sounds. She opened the door and breathed deep, letting the memory rise like sap in spring.