The Handkerchief

 

The Handkerchief

The handkerchief stayed.

It had been ten days since the owner had gone on his unplanned final journey, leaving it behind. For the first time, it rested, undisturbed, tucked into the pocket of the blue shirt that hung in the closet. One corner strategically placed, had a ‘K’ embroidered in a majestic cursive script.

It was made of high-quality Indian cotton, that had seen better days. It was slightly frayed at the edges. The pattern of tiny checkered blue and white squares had all but faded. A slight trace of the Old Spices male perfume lingered, reminiscent of its late owner.  It was neatly folded in a 2 by 4-inch rectangle that fitted into the pocket.

A gift from his father, for his wedding day, the handkerchief could reveal many a story. It carried memories of his life until the present. The handkerchief had helped mop the sweat on his tired brow after a hard day’s work. It had soaked up the tears of his young and lovely wife, during emotional outbursts. His kids, two little girls, followed by a robust healthy baby boy had put it to good use. Their father had lovingly wiped dirty little hands after play, wiped juice and milk remnants off their mouths. It had come with them on many a family outing. The family handkerchief, the kids had teasingly named it.

With the owner gone, would it share the same fate? As it lay there, it’s fate unknown, his older daughter stepped into the room. She tugged at it gently until it was free of the pocket, and caressingly held it to her cheek.

She said, with a tiny sob, “I would like to keep this”. As she wiped her tears with it, the handkerchief grew warm in her hands.

Author's Note

I wrote this for a Flash Fiction Contest for a Non-human theme..