This week’s task is to: Weave a tale based on your observations of this photo.
When Alma came home laden with the families shopping she was surprised to find that her father had already laid grandma out on the dining room table and was in earnest conversation with Mr Darby the funeral director.
As she packed away the groceries she heard snippets of the conversation from the dining room.
Tuesday afternoon, 2pm, the Far Chapel.
Her sister’s two children ran in demanding food, drink, a new toy to play with and Alma was not accustomed to the demands of small children looked flustered and concerned.
It was hard enough she thought looking after the baby who cried and threw up half the night.
Last week the effort of getting ready for the portrait had all but taken every ounce of her energy.
Alma was tired, worn out, could feel herself getting older by the day and it was unfair she thought to have been left with the responsibility of these children.
The portrait was necessary her father had said as grandmother was not long for this world and father had decided that the new technology would be utilised and so a record kept of the generations.
Alma had scowled through the entire process and wasn’t surprised when the prints came in and there she was looking miserable.
It was an accurate depiction she thought, she was miserable, she was not her usual happy self but the weight of the three children and her non-preparedness had left her bereft of feelings.
It was true she thought that she was only a shell now. A being capable of rote functions, whose feelings now didn’t amount to anything in the face of the present highly emotional situation.
I’m dying she thought, and these children are killing me.
She stopped for a moment as the older two disappeared into the back yard, biscuits in hand and thought of tomorrow and how like today it would be.
Grandma got it easy she thought, and these children had it tough, hard because she would be their stand in mother, capable of not much beyond barely functioning.
In the room above the baby stirred, another cycle of torment stared her in the face.
Gathering up her skirts she walked to the stairs barely noticing her dead grandmother laying in state on the dining room table.