She wound the Jasmin flowers around her hair. Perhaps the red chiffon saree and the string of rubies were a bit much for a simple home meal, but it had been his gift for their 25th anniversary.
The kitchen was alive with the aroma of his favourite garlic curry. A slow jazz played on the radio.
Yes, he would have been pleased if he came home now.
“Is this how you honour his memory on his first death anniversary?” his mother had railed.
“Ma, he died, but I live.”
Ma didn’t understand. But he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
Written for the Friday Fictioneers of 25 Sep 2020