Short Story - September 2007

Putty in her hands                                                      

"Stroke her face", aunty said, snuffling into a pink paper napkin retained from a visit to the Willow Cafe some weeks earlier.

"No way aunty. She looks as if she might bite."

"Just lay your hand on her rib cage then.”

"Whatever for?"
"She’s your mother. She'd be comforted to know you’re here."

"She wouldn’t. She’d be annoyed. Mum didn’t welcome personal contact of the 'laying hands on her rib cage' variety. You’re her sister - you comfort her."

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