Amy's stories · December · finally


By Amy Dollery


HE collects her broach

Still in the box,

And places it on her dresser,

In the tiny space

By the edge of the speckled mirror.

He lays her Sunday paper,

Onto the pile by their bed,

And puts away the Avon hand cream,

When her monthly order arrives.


He hangs the dress

He spotted in Oxfam,

In the now over crowded wardrobe,

And adds the shoes

He thinks will match,

To the mass under the bed.

He passes her knitting bag

Left in the hallway,

And steps over

The washing,

She was in the middle

Of putting away.


He sits downstairs,

Engulfed on the sofa

By the mounds of stuffed toys,

She used to collect,

And imagines

They are her arms,

Warm and soft,

Wrapping around him.

 © Amy Dollery 2016


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