scribblingwren avatar


"I remember her buying it." said Mum as we stood round a gold Draylon armchair, indent of Gran's body clearly left. My son peeled the cotton antimacassar off the back of the chair and held it aloft.


"To keep the upholstery nice. Stop marks." He'd prised up headphones to hear my answer.

"Christ it looks like the fucking Turin shroud" I scowled at my brother's insensitivity but I don't think Mum heard.

The lady from the charity shop had been with a burly driver and taken what they could sell. We phoned the council they'd collect what was left.

3 comments add one below

  • avatar

    Neville Hunt about 4 years ago

    This is one of the saddest parts of bereavement of an old person. Even sadder is looking at their shoes. Your drabble juxtaposes well the sadness with harsh practical reality.

  • avatar

    Lisa Williams about 4 years ago

    Thanks. Think it's interesting what we leave behind & what happens to it. Think they'll just throw a match in when I go (Hoarder!) X

  • avatar

    Neville Hunt about 4 years ago

    Me too (hoarder). The trouble is, I see value in everything....I think the kids will bin it all though when our time comes!

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