She was broken.
Her husband of 40 years had died, collapsed while mowing the lawn on a muggy August day, and she broke.
She did not shatter like a glass dropped onto her kitchen tile floor, but broke gradually. Cracking first, like her ceramic garden pot she left out all winter. To fall apart, into jagged pieces later – after the services. After the condolences. When she should have been tossing out all the funeral flowers, wilted, hanging their faded heads. In a grief as superficial as all the “I’m so sorry for your loss” Hallmark cards lined up on the mantel.
No, there was nothing jagged and broken in the ceremonial. Only in the afterwards – in the daily which refused to deviate from the usual mundane, of his razor still fully charged on the bathroom sink. His toothbrush in its stand. When those jagged broken edges of the broken flower pot cut into her hands and she felt a rush of relief in the physical pain.
First issue of The Woven Tale Press is out! An eclectic culling of the blogging web.