“I’ve brought you some red roses from my garden, Mum.” “I don’t want those. They symbolise death,” she retorted, grumpy as ever. “I‘m sure that’s chrysanthemums,” I said. “Roses are for love, especially red ones.” But she was adamant. Anyone would think I was trying to hasten her demise, the way she reacted. “You’ll have to humour her for a change, like I do,” said my brother. “It’s the only way to avoid arguments.” Now she is dead and her dogmas still beat against my eardrums like tinnitus. I have no idea what flowers I should put on her coffin.
Yvonne Clarke lives in West Sussex. She has been writing flash fiction since 2019 and, apart from reading, writing and decorating her house, does little else. Find Yvonne on Twitter @eflevie.