by Nicola Henderson
The nurse spoke into the silence: she had beautiful skin, your mum. I noted the tense; my mother already in the past, yet in the present only minutes before. My mind cannot accept this. Can I be on my own with her, I ask, and the nurse and my father fade from the room leaving us - me - alone. When they are gone, I press her body from face to feet, making an impression, forcing memory of her in through the palms of my hands and my fingertips. My body will remember while my mind shatters.
Nicola Henderson lives in Edinburgh, Scotland. She writes other people's words for a living and is now trying out her own.