Wednesday, Best Knee Forward
She stared at the entrance from the bottom of the steps, thinking about her knees. Every Wednesday for three years she had knelt at his grave, weeding, clipping, polishing the granite stone and now her knees were done for. She carried her guilt in her knees and they wouldn’t let her move on.
One Wednesday, just one, she left him to join the Bridge Club and that was the day his heart gave out. If she had been there . . .
She sat on the bottom step massaging her joints, ‘Hello, Sandra isn’t it?’, he offered his arm. She let go, of a sigh. Onwards.