She was much too young, too ravishing to be a widow.
The essence of propriety, she sat on a chair at the foot of her husband’s coffin, graciously greeting those who came to pay their respects.
Her husband’s beloved Adagio in G Minor played softly in the background.
A tear escaped and she dabbed her eye with a lace handkerchief. Her stepson, her husband’s grown son, stood behind her, a conciliatory hand lightly on her shoulder.
His thumb discreetly caressed her velvet neck.
NAR © 2023
83 word requirement
The Elephant's Trunk 