| Grandson After she died, we spent three days cleaning - raising dust in the poky council bungalow, grass hissing outside, high as the windows. It was a time-capsule, this house where a young woman had grown up, grown old; had dreamed, dressed, undressed, loved. The torn-up stockings of yesteryear became dusters and dishcloths; we washed out the bath silently, the cotton aprons of marriage strung around our necks. They'd already hauled the sofa away when you came. Its absence stung you, as you stacked boxes fizzing with newspaper, in the space where it stood. Strange, I thought, the things men sentimentalise. You did not take the wedding ring - once warmed daily by her lined palm - though she'd have wanted you to; or the scent-bottle she kept her childhood wishes in. Instead, you rattled home, hugging her convector heater, trailing flex - and coveted the contents of the coal-house, the key-rack. The tiny paperweight was your only concession - one glass tear, an ancient egg in the nest of your hand. Claire Askew |
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