Tidying Up After
You left early, mid-sentence; grass uncut, leeks ready for pulling. The bird table you were attempting to mend face down on the patio. Mind you, you tidied away that last bottle to the very last drop.
I have taken to washing up my teaspoon, burning old postcards, composting diaries. If I say something significant for a change, don’t be alarmed; I am but a finger’s stretch closer to the shadows.
My partner on the other hand is accumulating wood and nails, enough to open a hardware shop. Or build an arc. Or in the event, a coffin. Now that’s tidy.
Miranda Lewis, 2018
(Genre: unreliable memoir)
Welcome readers and writers to Friday Fiction, hosted by the indefatigable, inestimable Rochelle, with thanks to Ronda Del Boccio for the photo prompt. Now you might be thinking it isn’t Friday and this isn’t really fiction, but on the other hand it is 100 words.
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