Francesca

Your grandmother was hovering behind us in the hallway. The house was dark, but I could still make out her tiny frame bathed in the light from the kitchen.

She was staring directly ahead, her eyes fixed on some half-remembered moment. In her hands she nursed a concealed object. Perhaps it was a tattered photograph or a faded china doll.

She began to edge closer towards us, eyes still focused on a world that you or I will never know. The muskiness of the air clung to the wallpaper like amnesia. I glimpsed the object in her hands.

It was a half-full bedpan.

As she shuffled past, the pale liquid swelled inside the plastic vessel. It washed up against her hands, up against the ceiling, up against her stiff navy skirt. It surged with the velocity of memory and left us warmly dripping on the polished floorboards.

Her refuse formed a sick cologne which lingered on our skin for days. It was only when the smell gradually disappeared that we were able to forget the experience entirely.