My first attempt of a hundred-word story.

I face my grandmother over the metal table of her 1960s-decor kitchen. My mother and her brothers had eaten over this same surface, dangled their feet over this white vinyl floor. There’s black mould against the window frame. Otherwise, the kitchen’s unchanged.

Nan smiles at me through filmy eyes. “Corrie, where’s that nice young man who visited the other day?”

I can’t say that there’s no more Corrie, no more nice young man. The invitation to my parents’ funeral rests unopened between us. I take it and return it to my bag.

“He’ll be here soon,” I say.