May 18, 2014 by Sez
She scowls lopsidedly at the old fool in the mirror. Dresses herself. Maneuvers fabric around the dead weight of her arm. Won’t let nurses do it. Won’t be dressed like a doll. Like an old woman. At least she’s still got that photo of her and Matilda. Arm in arm. In love. She hopes one nurse might be “of our church”, as Tilly would’ve said. Might look twice and know her for a grieving widow, not an old maid.
But even if her mouth could form the words to correct those who shout “IS THAT YER SISTER?”, she wouldn’t tell.