The Gap

The Gap

Once again Tilda stood with her hands in yellow Marigolds, and the yellow Marigolds in Fairy Liquid infused hot water.

But her hands weren’t moving.  She was staring out the kitchen window at the newly created gap in her life. It was letting in more light, more sunshine and she could see into the field beyond the bottom of her garden. This was a view she usually only saw in the depths of winter when the trees stood bare and exposed.

She liked the view she decided. She liked what she saw beyond the gap. A gently sloping field dotted with sheep who, like her, were barely moving. And beyond the foothills she could see the hills surrounding her small, isolated house in the flat, wide-open valley.

What would fill the gap she wondered? Her hands moved more from muscle memory than any desire to clean the dishes. She placed a washed dish on the draining board and the gentle clatter broke her from her reverie.

It had been the last thing he’d done. The very last thing he’d done. The very last action he took in their lives has been a destructive one. She was not unaware of the metaphor. She looked at the gap and the fallen tree. And then looked down at the single plate, the single cup and the single knife and wondered what she was going to do to fill the gap.

Keith Clarke April 2025