Photo courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Sun slices through the kitchen window and tiny rainbows hover inside lemon-scented soap-suds. I slosh water over the pans – there aren’t many – I’m still not used to cooking for one.
The tyre swings from the apple tree. Jack hung it there when the girls were small. There’s the roses we planted when our first cat, Smoky, was run over.
Tears plop into the washing-up bowl and I wipe my nose on my sleeve.
In the flower bed, under the daffodils, lies Jack. Such a cliché burying him in the garden; such a cliché catching him in bed with his secretary.
At least the flowers are blooming.
Written for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 word story inspired by a photo prompt. Read the other entries here.