Monday: Forgot my husband’s name. Surprisingly easy to cover.
Tuesday: Couldn’t remember the route to work. Somewhat trickier.
Wednesday: Stayed home.
Next day: Somewhere a wardrobe door swung drunkenly on broken hinges; a bookcase toppled, spilling its entire contents.
Another: Curtains sleepwalk from open windows.
And another: I am kneeling in the garden, someone‘s gnarled old hands holding my trowel. A young man bearing a beautiful mauve flowering plant is crossing the lawn.
He turns the label towards me and I read, ‘Phlox Paniculata, Purple Kiss. Names are so important don’t you think…’ He indicates the sticky label on his pullover. ‘Henry. What a considerate young man you are. Your family must be very proud.’
He grins. ‘Especially my Grandma.’
The wardrobe door gently closes; the bookcase temporarily rights itself. The windows are secure, the curtains still as I smile into his handsome face, recalling momentarily the first day I held him, rosy and new: my very own grandson, Henry.
(Flash fiction 160 words)