The Hoarder



image copyright Jan Wayne Fields

Serena looked at the miserable figure that stood before her, his knobbly, mottled hands thrust resolutely into the pockets of an oversized navy parker that spoke of a time when it’s owner had been larger and more robust.

Small grey eyes, too weak to meet her own, surveyed the years of unrestrained collecting, as if seeing for the first time the detritus he had accumulated since Anne’s death. Paper thin and pink, his eyelids blinked rapidly, batting away the fat tears that welled up from the bottomless pit inside of him.

“We have to make a start somewhere dad,” she said gently, putting a hand on his skeletal shoulder. “How about that old toilet?”

“Not that!” he cried, “That’s where I keep your mother’s ashes!”




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