Bohemia Village Voice  Bohemia Village Voice

For bohemians everywhere

Sabrina Holt

Mrs Morris

It was a beautiful day to die. Snow was falling in the coastal town of Agiefan for the first time in 48 years. All awoke to find themselves immersed in a beautiful blanket of pure white bliss.
Excitement saturated the air, the town pulsated with joy. Bradford street was resonating with the festive chorus from carollers. They were outside number 21. A house they anticipated eagerly each year. The home of Mrs Morris, a building which echoed character and charm. The carollers were half-way through Mrs Morris’ favourite hymn Pass me not, O gentle saviour before suspicion arose. Like clockwork, Mrs Morris would have opened the wreath-bearing door. Her smile would warm the coldest of mornings. She would give offerings of warm Christmas treats and donate generously.
Indeed she was old, increasingly frail and each year it took a little longer to answer the door; but never that long.
Patrick, the local priest, approached the door and tried the handle. It was open, of course. Mrs Morris believed a locked door is a closed heart for those of little faith. He entered as the last lines of the hymn were gently sung. The words carried with him into the house and into the dimly lit room where he found Mrs Morris.
3 days later
They stood opposite number 21. The wall of flowers left by grieving townsfolk was a sight to behold. Some late friends of Mrs Morris had amalgamated opposite the house and for a short time remained sombrely quiet.
Colin initiated the conversation, “I heard you were the one to find her, Pat,” a remark which earned him an elbow from his wife of 52 years.
“For Christ sake, Colin, don’t be so thoughtless.”
Pat spoke, ignoring the blasphemy. He stared into the still thick snow and recalled the memory stained on the back of his retina.
“Yes,” Patrick cleared his throat, “she was in her armchair. An envelope on her lap. Her eyes were open. Just staring out. The view was breathtaking.”
“Literally,” responded Colin who earned a second elbow.
“What was in the envelope?” persisted Colin’s wife, Linda.
“Her will!” Pat continued with difficulty, “everything divided between a long list of recipients. Her belongings are even to be auctioned off to local residents, with proceeds going to the church. The only enigma is that of this house.”
“She should be a saint,” exclaimed Samantha, as she caressed her swelling stomach. Samantha had been told she would never bear a child. That year she resorted to faith as a final attempt of conception and attended church weekly, where she met Mrs Morris. After 15 years of disappointment, Samantha was blessed within months of having Mrs Morris in her life.
“When’s the funeral?” Colin continued.
“A week Monday,” answered Patrick. He smiles. “We’re going to need a bigger church.”
As they sighed in agreement they noticed a rather scrappy-looking lad shuffling up the path, examining an equally scrappy-looking document which only appeared that way due to the excessive number of times that document had been read in disbelief.
I was the ‘scrappy’ lad who inherited the home of Mrs Morris. I was an orphan who spent much of my time doing volunteer work. Kept the mind busy you see. I never really met Mrs Morris. But I do remember her. To me, she was just another elderly resident resting on a park bench watching the world go by, just another old lady who needed help to cross the road.
I wrote this snapshot to share with the world a wonderful woman whose love reverberates in those who were lucky enough to share her company.

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