The suspense continues to mount and I wanted to peek in on my birdies. With the hotel seemingly unoccupied for the moment, I figured I better make haste. No one wants to return home to an unexpected guest nosing about the room. After gathering the unwieldy ladder and smacking my knee on a door frame (golly, that smarts), I thought it best to don some gloves. I recalled some warning of leaving scent, as I believe we don't smell very assuring.
I walked to the closet and pulled out a pair of gloves. Grandma's gloves. Last week, on the day she passed, my dad was rummaging around the garage. Out of all the things to grab, he was drawn to these gloves and handed them to me. "Here," he offered. "These don't need to stay in the garage." I thought it rather odd, to be honest. Why the old gloves? But I took them, packed them home, and didn't think of them again until today.
When I pulled the gloves on, in preparation for my birdie snooping, I lifted them to my nose. Smell. How clever God is. In an instant, I experienced my Grandmother in one of those inexplicable ways. The smell was familiar and comforting. Something like cold cream and hugs.
No eggs yet. But they've been busy. And if they detect some scent, I'm sure they'll understand that it was only Grandma. And Grandma always makes you feel assured.