It was all she had to leave me, she said, unaware she’d left me so much more.
I blow the dust from the spindle and test the treadle with my foot. It still works. As did she, right up to a few months before her death.
Hers was a different era. A time when the needy were truly needy, and not just needing more; when aid was for times of crisis, and not a way of life.
In the bobbin-box I find a roll of bank-notes, carefully labelled.
“For my funeral.”
You paid your way, even on your way out.
Thank you to Rochelle for using my photo to rally the Friday Fictioneers into action. This brought back some memories for me. And I was pleased that inspiration came quickly and easily this week.