Years ago, my father came to the U.S. to follow the American dream.
He thought that maybe he could give us a good life here, and honestly he did.
I was born in a small village outside of Breuillet, France.
My father was a savonniere, or in English a soap maker.
I was only six years old when my father decided to relocate us, which for years I never understood.
There aren’t many thing’s I remember of my birthplace, but the few that I do make me question many things.
I remember our house, small but cozy little home, always warm and filled with love.
I remember never going hungry, alwaus have a nice warm meal with fresh vegetables and meat.
I remember my father always having people visit, most of them only once though.
I remember when Madame Gros’ husband disappeared, Papa was the first to give Madame the first batch of cured soaps.
I remember her smile, it was the first time since the disappearance and the small glimmer of happiness she had in the dark.
But there are things I remember that don’t add up.
I remember Momma being upset, yelling with only quiet whispers about “hiding the sin”.
There’s a smell that used to make me sick to my stomach.
Growing up I was told it was just the smell of the lye, something that is necessary in the soap making process.
All soap really is is a mixture of oils/fats and lye, which is then cooled and scented.
It was this sickingly sweet smell, almost a mixture of bad pork and metal.
But for the past three weeks, I’ve been making my own soap to honor my father since his passing.
I haven’t smelled it once from the picking out the oils to the curring porcess, not one single time.
I’ve tried to talk to my mother about it but she will not even acknowledge anything about it.
I don’t understand, maybe there are some things I will never know.
Some familys have skeletons in their closets, we have soap.