To make up for the utter lack of posts on this topic (utterly inexcusable since I’ve actually been writing, the last few days aside), I’m posting a bit more than six sentences today. This also serves to suck up for next weekend in advance; with Coffin Hop approaching, I likely won’t have a post next Sunday.
So, without further ado, here ya go.
She’d been small even at seven, and her gran’s house had been full of mourners, several of them women her gran’s age who, rather than remain leanly built, had slid comfortably into their elder years and fallen happily into the cliche of hugging a young girl close to their perfumed chests. Even her gran hadn’t hugged her that much, and she certainly didn’t smell cloyingly of perfume. Overwhelmed, she’d gone to her gran, tears filling her eyes, and told her distinctly that she didn’t like what was happening. Not the people themselves. Only what was happening.
Nuala had understood what her great-granddaughter meant. “Sure and sometimes we have to go to places we don’t like,” her gran had replied equably. “But other times, well, you can always go somewhere else, can’t you?” And with that, she’d handed her a wrapped sandwich and winked before letting Emily escape out the door.
She blinked at the memory, took a moment to remember that yes, she was an adult, no longer a child, and her gran was no longer here. But her words lingered.
You can always go somewhere else, can’t you?