The wooden steps to the back porch are rotten and wobbly. The rain gutters that hang askew drip every time it rains. The roof with rusted nails is perched on the flimsy eaves and will fly off sooner or later.
I don’t fix them. Instead, just wait until either the house or I finally give out. I could sell this place and make them somebody else’s problems. Get the monkey off my back, I suppose.
This widowhood ain’t for the weak. You need to be fearlessly optimistic. Or a liar, telling yourself and those around you everything is okay.
This isn’t exactly a story with a beginning, middle or end, but… Inspired by and written for Friday Fictioneers – 19 February 2021 and Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner – 2021 week #07.