The Crossing

It was a Thursday morning.

Last evening our dear mother had left her familiar bed in the company of two well-dressed gentlemen from the funeral parlour. They said they would take good care of her. We believed them, and they did. Her passing expression, seven fifteen, was one of pure ecstasy, swiftly followed by a faint smile that spread about her mouth and lips.

She had lain there, in state, for two hours, before they arrived to carry her away, and we had taken turns to lie with her, in private, whispering, and holding her hands, still warm and soft. Her capable worldly hands. Post-tumescent.

A time of little or no pain. Purely relaxed. Aspiring and inspiring. Tough-sensitive. Salved and sanctified.

Just like that.

I got up quite early, house quiet, the light bathing in the hallway. The mail was resting atop the doormat and I bent down to recover it. As I did so, I noticed a fragment of purple paper, triangular, fluttering in a web by the door, as though I was supposed to perceive it, to see it. To touch it. On it was a cross in white. I turned it over. Two letters in white, f and p. From Peggy. I stood stock still for five minutes. Reading the message.

I bent down to recover the mail, as intended. On top was a purple envelope addressed to Mrs PC Jones from a charity. The top right-hand corner was missing. It was cupped in my left hand, like a little bird.

The spider was long gone.