Remains

“I remember her buying it.” said Mum as we stood round a gold Draylon armchair, indent of Gran’s body clearly left. My son peeled the cotton antimacassar off the back of the chair and held it aloft.

‘Whassifor?’

“To keep the upholstery nice. Stop marks.” He’d prised up headphones to hear my answer.

“Christ it looks like the fucking Turin shroud” I scowled at my brother’s insensitivity but I don’t think Mum heard.

The lady from the charity shop had been with a burly driver and taken what they could sell. We phoned the council they’d collect what was left.

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