...and angels cried
By benafim
…And Angels Cried The lino in the living room was frayed, near the kitchen door unpolished floor boards peeped through. Furniture of the simple sort bought second hand years ago and on walls black framed family pictures. Yet with flowers on the window sill and summer sun filling the room with brightness it had a nostalgic charm and an echo of laughter. Now the room was silent the one who lived here wasn’t coming back. Steps and whispers in the hall mourners had come to see what she had of value, perhaps she had money stashed in a cupboard? Anyway her flowers were pretty. She used to say that to have plastic flowers in the house was to invite poverty; not knowing that for most she was seen as poor. A childhood in a crowded orphanage, a life time cleaning offices and emptying ashtrays had brought her no riches, for her a flat all by herself was to be blessed. A smile of contentment had always played upon her lips which were now painted and cold, and her sky blue eyes, so full of mirth, were dimmed by unforgiving death. The Mourners had taken the flowers and when the echo of her laughter faded, angels cried and the flat sank into gloominess. Written January 2nd, 2002 © on Jan 02 2002 12:30 AM PST 0 • 8
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"…And Angels Cried..."