Swansong

The younger of the two men stopped to linger in front of the huge sepia print. Richard didn’t need to see, the image forever fresh in his memory. “Who is she?” Neil’s voice, subdued, the man spoke almost as though they stood in a church or a library. A mausoleum more like, although Richard detested where the thought led. Richard breathed in, and, for the first time, accepted how stale and stuffy the house smelled. Made him think of little old ladies soaked in lavender, cats curled up on their laps amid coloured skeins of wool knitting jumpers given to sons with set grimaces they hoped would be mistaken for smiles. He didn’t know where the vision came from. His Gloria was never like that. Nor his mother. Perhaps the view was a recollection of his grandmother, but he struggled to recall. T