PHOTO PROMPT © Trish Nankivell
Once a week for twelve weeks each year for the last decade we gathered. Damaged goods some might say. No matter what else was swirling in the loo in each of our lives, we knew we could depend on her benevolent smile and her gentle voice to rest in when we were so weary with the meanness of the world.
Each week in our sacred space she teased the poison out of us like a healing poultice.
Covid took her in May. She died alone. There was no funeral.
She left no forwarding address, but I know where she is.
My story today isn’t fiction. She used to call angels sent to earth to help others “Jesus with skin.” I miss her.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the hearth-warming host of Friday Fictioneers.