It's Still Life

Dead Men Don’t Drown: #12

(catch-up with all episodes here)

I obey the conservator for exactly twenty-three minutes, which is long enough to find an old manila envelope, write DO NOT OPEN on it in block capitals, and place the spiral lock inside as though firm handwriting has ever saved a woman from herself.

The neighbour’s cat watches from my grandmother’s chair, one paw tucked under its chest, radiating moral superiority while I make tea, burn the toast, make more tea, and finally tip the freezer bag onto the kitchen table.

Loose coins scatter like small dull witnesses around the expired credit card and Jacob Macleod’s wedding band.

The ring is heavier than I remember, warm almost at once between my fingers, and when I turn it towards the window a scratch of engraving catches the light inside the gold.

It takes my phone, a torch, two pairs of reading glasses, and a sharp surge of language my grandmother would have called unnecessary before the letters swim into sense.

Not Mary, I read, not my grandmother’s name at all, but Mairi.

Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “surge”.  Some images created with Midjourney; all writing is authentically my own original work.

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