My home was once a soap factory
my old man tells visitors,
of a family slaving over hot pots,
rendering mutton fat in the heat.
Water dripped through wood ash,
saponifying soap,
before pouring down cellar steps,
onto the road below.
Our basement’s now a cold kitchen,
large windows gaze on moors,
the village sprawls,
with other cottage homes.
Families lived and worked together.
Not unlike now? In our post-Covid, PC world,
where anti-bacterial hand gel
fills our bathrooms.
Sonia asks
“Can we still smell the soap?”
I love how this piece blends memory, history, and the present—it carries the smell of the past right into our hands today. The detail of the soap dripping down the cellar steps stayed with me, and that last question feels haunting and tender at once.
Thank you for your lovely comment.