Tyres crunch on gravel. She holds the mohair close. Warm folds of comfort, security.
Notices the soft shoots of spring. Soon they’ll turn to golden trumpets, blue flags of hope, scarlet-fringed joy. She’d planted them last autumn. Before.
Crunching is closer. An engine stops, doors bang. Then more crunching, feet this time. Closer and closer.
“Hello, love.” A gentle voice.
Caring arms lift her body. Another bed. She reaches for the mohair.
“Here you go, dear. Take it with you.”
Seth’s blanket, still fragrant with Imperial Leather. A remnant of love.
She’s wreathed in yellow and green, ensconced in clinical kindness. A gear engages, a siren screams, a light flashes ‘Ambulance.’