A beautiful micro fiction story by Jane Dougherty.
She watches as the big brown cat lopes along the guttering and drops out of sight. Pasha wouldn’t be long. He’s as old as she is, she reckons, in cat years.
He’s all she has now. Joe is dead these twenty years, but she still catches the occasional whiff of his cigarettes when she moves the cushions on his chair. Springtime is the hardest. Each time like the first spring after Joe died, when everything else was growing, opening, faces smiling.
The baby too, the only one, is just a vague white-robed memory, but the pain is always there, just beneath her ribs. Today it seems sharper than ever.
The sun sinks and Pasha has not come back. She replaces the cat biscuit in the pantry with trembling hands. Her own slice of ham and tiny pat of butter remain untouched. Rheumy eyes spill over. Sometimes the smallest things are…
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