Photo courtesy of Madison Woods
Greta woke to the grayness of dawn. Time to rise, though she had no use for this day. This Christmas day. One year ago, her Henry had gone to his final rest. She righted herself with a grunt, slipped her feet into her worn scuffs, and made her way to the kitchen.
She lit the stove and set out a single cup and a tin of tea. At the sink, the copper kettle fell from her hand without notice. By the grandfather clock, long ago run down, stood a tree bedecked from tip to toe with twinkling lights and ornaments.