Room by room, I dismantle her life. This for charity, that to throw away, very little to set aside to keep. The gold chain worn every day. Photo albums spanning ninety years.
But then there are the hand prints on the French windows, stains on carpets from cups of tea spilt and not cleaned up, scuffs on the skirting from tricky manoeuvres with a walking frame, marks on walls left by much-loved pictures . . .
dance in sunlight
edging through the blinds