Less than green these days
Russell stared at the photograph sitting on the window ledge above the cooker. Sarah would laugh at him if she could see him now, only she couldn’t, wouldn’t. The first Sunday after she’d died, he’d forgiven himself and knew she would have too; a roast for one.
Three months later and he was still serving up double portions – one sat in front of him, the other in front of the empty chair; the chair with the Border Collie cushion. The cushion he’d bought for her last Christmas; the Christmas they’d not expected to see together.
She’d been given six months at best and had seen another four. Christmas, New Year, just short of Easter and now it was summer. The time of year she’d spend her days in the garden. That she wouldn’t be so pleased about; the dying plants, unmowed lawn, less than green these days, bird food containers.
Work had been understanding. “Take all the time you need,” Simon had said. He’d known how Russell had felt then – but not now. Jane had got better, lived, thrived. She’d helped Sara those first few months but when it became clear that there really was no hope the gaps between visits grew wider until she stopped coming – to the house, to work, to the funeral. Russell had considered quitting his job but he’d needed something to focus on – a return date – another set of walls to stare at all day.
Photography courtesy of morguefile.com.
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