You looked off-kilter: eyes glassy, face vacuous, skin possessing a coppery hue as if you’d spent a fortnight in Majorca. But it was you in essence.
The taxidermist had never done a human before but was up for the challenge. Guests would perch on the sofa and gawp at you in the armchair, their mouths stuffed with silence, their visits always short.
We’d clasp hands and watch telly, and although you didn’t show any interest you were considerate enough to sit through every episode of Coronation Street, including the weekend omnibus.
Your mother found out and flew over from California. Scandalised.
Someone had phoned and blabbed. Sneaky.
‘‘Jesus H Christ, what have you done to him?’ she squawked, along with, ‘What kinda monster doesn’t tell a mother her son’s dead?’
They could’ve jailed me but my lawyer spoke of a mind dissolved by grief and I was absolved. Not by your mother though. She bad-mouthed me, saying I’d glacéd her son and deserved to rot in hell. She flew your body back to the land of professionally preserved faces.
***
I stuff your morning suit with scrunched-up newspaper and place it on the sofa. We sit side by side, staring at the photo on the mantel, the one of our wedding day in which your mother battleaxed her way to the centre of the line-out to pose next to you. I stood on your other side certain she couldn’t come between us, naively thinking nothing could. I was glitter-eyed with tears, grateful for marrying my lifelong partner.
You indulge my moment of nostalgia and I give you a hug. Ever loving, you crinkle in appreciation.
First published online at Reflex Fiction in Feb 2021.
Sharon loves almond croissants but shudders at pretzels. Her short stories and flash have been published in Fictive Dream, Bath Anthology and The Phare. She's flies through Bluesky @sharon54.bsky.social.
No comments:
Post a Comment