Everything was as before with the sounds of the house. There was the same smell of wood and pine. There was chatter behind the walls. As an amateur writer of child fiction, I returned home. My soul was in limbo, but I heard the angels.
But some things were different. Mom was stiff and icy. Her bones had grown black hairs on her knuckles. She was talking on the phone. Between her bony fingers, she held a burning cigarette, now mostly gone to ashes. With her toothless smile, she turned her head 360 degrees and blew me an air kiss.
It smelled of the peat and moors and the ravages of her death. The untimely wilting of her ageless beauty. Now but a testament to how a cobweb is hung. A heroine of her own demise of a harlot's daughter.