Gran had moved in with us.
A short term arrangement until we could agree where we should scatter her ashes.
She presently took centre stage on the mantelpiece, her small green urn wedged between a picture of mum and dad on their wedding day and an old carriage clock.
We’d found the jar whilst clearing out Gran’s flat. It was where she kept her wishes, written on brightly coloured scraps of paper and dated.
I found what must have been her last wish, dated the day before she died.
It simply read – ‘Please, whatever happens, don’t let them cremate me.’
A 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.
Photo courtesy of Priya Bajpal