VERA’S VASE
When Great-aunt Vera had
her stroke we raced to see her.
Propped up in bed, impossibly small, she
gripped my hand. “I’ll be dead by Sunday.”
I choked on a sob but she
shushed me.
“I’ve left you everything
on one condition – you must smash that vase.” She patted my cheek. “It was
always there when I visited but I know you loathe it.”
We laughed and promised.
After her funeral we positioned
the camera against the night sky, drank champagne from Vera’s vase and then dropped
it.
Shards exploded with light
and in death the vase was beautiful.
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That was another piece of Flash Fiction for Friday Fictioneers prompted by a photograph on this blog - https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ Follow the Blue Frog trail on her blog to read more stories.
