by Hannah Retallick
I scatter ashes into the sea that killed him. Give us this day our daily swim and forgive us our mourning. They gather in clothes he hated, remembering a man they barely knew.
I scatter ashes into the blue he loved, acting the part with skyward eyes, but my mind is filled with paperwork, my Michael shrunk to admin.
I scatter ashes from the crumbling cliff, where distant relatives find heaving sobs. I picture their black-coated bodies staggering and falling, splatting on the rocks below. I hate those easy tears, their sudden caring, and how they have time to grieve.
About the author
Hannah Retallick is a twenty-six-year-old from Anglesey, North Wales. She was home educated and then studied with the Open University, graduating with a First-class honours degree, BA in Humanities with Creative Writing and Music, and is studying for an MA in Creative Writing. She is working on her second novel and writes short stories and a blog. She was shortlisted in the Writing Awards at the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 2019, the Cambridge Short Story Prize, and the Henshaw Short Story Competition June 2019. https://ihaveanideablog.wordpress.com/