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Submitted by admin on April 8, 2010 – 3:45 pmNo Comment

By Cynthia Allen

There is surely no more poignant sight than that of a dead woman’s clothes, hanging disconsolately, waiting for their inevitable eviction.

“You finished yet?” Mike grumbled, “It’s getting dark.”
“Then put the light on.”
“Tried.  Bulb’s gone.”
Was this it? Sarah thought.  A life, to be measured by possessions, relentless accretions of stuff. She had wanted her mother’s body to be sheltered in a sarcophagus, something ostentatious, imposing.  Post-cremation, that seemed absurd, now that she was a -  distinctly unimposing  -  heap of ash.  How should she be immortalised?   Words on an insignificant little tombstone:  ‘Death by thrift?
‘Annihilation by parsimony?’  ‘Execution by a dodgy kitchen appliance?’
“Don’t know why you’re bothering,” Mike whined, “She was a cantankerous old …”
“I won’t be long.”
She removed her mother’s coat from the wardrobe, caressed it affectionately.
toast“But I’m hungry!”
Sarah smiled; a secret, vengeful smile.
“Why don’t you make some toast?”

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