Some time back, Megan, my elder daughter, was having a good clear-out of the “kids’ bathroom” and asked if I wanted any of Julia’s things. “They’re all out of date,” she said, ready to let them go.

I wasn’t.

Expiration dates matter little to me when it comes to lotions and potions. And so, over the past months, I’ve been using Julia’s leftover face scrubs, cleansers, body lotions—letting them linger a little longer in my bathroom and my world. Every time I pick up a bottle, I hold her in my awareness—very intentionally. Trying to sense her, sense her scent. Holding onto a memory, an image, a turn of phrase, or just a tone. Absorbing her in these small acts of care.

But now, the last of the lotions and potions are running out. The bathwater, so to speak, is all that remains. And what’s left are the things I won’t use—multiple bottles of makeup remover, nail polish remover. Things Julia, the make-up artist, the alchemist of colour and light, used with such skill and joy.

Do I now just throw them out?

They are too old to pass on, yet too much a part of her to toss carelessly. And then there’s the plastic. Ouch.

These are the quiet moments of ongoing grief. No longer the big, cinematic waves, the volcanic eruptions, but the undercurrent that never leaves. The ongoing, tender weighing of what I continue to hold onto and what I release.

I’m not quite ready to throw them away. But soon, when the time comes, I will manage.