There is a shelved alcove in the living room. Neither of them has ventured near the top shelf in years; it is an unspoken rule between them. That is the urn's place, its curves reminiscent of the way their daughter's body might have flowered given the opportunity. At ten, Cassie had been lithe and boyish with the beginnings of small, olive-like breasts. She loved to dance. Charlie remembers how she danced with her mother, their laughter bouncing around the room trying to keep pace with their feet.
Charlie's wife Estelle has calm, cool hands but the lines in her palms are deeply drawn. The urn's fertile form is there to remind her of everything she has lost. There, too, to remind her that it is too late for her to start over. Her sorrow fills the spaces between the floorboards in their empty house, spilling out from beneath the curtains and collecting in corners.
On the eve of Cassie's sixteenth birthday, Charlie delays leaving work as long as he can. He knows that when he gets home there will be a solitary candle burning in the street: there, to the left of their driveway, where it all happened.
They dine quietly and simply. Afterwards, Charlie clears his throat. "I've been thinking," he says, "we should move out of town. Get away from all the congestion; get us some fresh air. We could start up a garden." Estelle looks at him, the doubt in her face all too familiar. This time, he walks around to where she is sitting and places his hands resolutely over her shoulders.
The house sells more quickly than they expected; the buyer remarks on its immaculate condition. They find themselves a place in a village only half an hour's drive away. Before long, the removal men have been and gone.
Charlie and Estelle stand together in the doorway to their empty living room. She touches his arm. Charlie walks over to the alcove and stretches up to feel the dust on the top shelf lying velvety beneath his palms. His fingertips caress the urn's belly with the soft rasping sound of skin against clay. The urn tumbles from the shelf, its smooth curves shattering into jagged splinters on the floor.
A mist of fine powder is borne up, blooming like a flower. Estelle's throat seizes, her body rigid. Charlie cannot turn to face her; he hears her slam the front door behind her and drops to his knees.
It is a long while before she returns.
Estelle crosses the room and takes off her shoes. Gently, she drags a foot through the ashes on the floor and begins to dance a slow, fluid dance. The ashes spread themselves in swirls around her feet, slip in amongst the floorboards and float up in small puffs like peals of childish laughter. At last, her body comes to a standstill beside her husband. Estelle helps Charlie to his feet.
Sophie Khadr has one espresso story to her name and is a pediatrician in her other life. She lives in Edinburgh, Scotland where she loves the long summer days and windswept hills and only sometimes yearns for the warmer climes of her youth.