The Handkerchief The handkerchief, she thought, said more about the person than a million words could tell. It was one of those proper old-fashioned fabric handkerchiefs, a refreshing and ordinary novelty in this world of disposables. It was an unseasonably cold evening, with brisk chilly winds, and her nose and eyes filled with moist because of it. He offered it genuinely, without questions, and she was immediately reminded of the times when as a little girl, her father pulled out his eternally white handkerchief to wipe off her face. She thought that in the vast majority of cases, happiness showed up unannounced, popping up in the simplest of situations. It was always those unspoken nuances that managed to add the most vibrant colors to her daily life. The handkerchief was soft, in a pale green, quite faded from use, with a plaid rim in shades of gray. It had a warm smell, the kind that transports us remotely yet instantly to our childhood. It resembled the smell of her own home, as if it had lived its entire life in the back of a drawer in her parents' wooden dresser. She felt like keeping it, not just because it felt so familiar, but also as a token of that statement of caring friendship and trust. But she didn’t. Before returning it, she washed it fully aware of how much more she was washing away. She ironed it and folded it carefully. She would return it the next day, a different smell, a different handkerchief.