'Time Stretch(ed)' by Laura Besley

Facebook reminds George it’s been a year since he donated his dead son’s belongings to the local charity shop. It was tough, but it had to be done his post says, almost jaunty.

Two weeks ago was the first anniversary. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Endless endless days. Now, already three hundred and seventy-nine. How does time keep going?     

Today, George peers through the large shop window, sees nothing familiar.

At the counter, he says, ‘I don’t suppose you remember me.’  

The woman pushes her glasses into her short grey hair. ‘I do, actually. Let me get your son’s things.’