Scrambled

Scrambled

She’s forgetting, no that’s not true because she remembers Derek and the garden and the spade digging into the cold, dark earth; the bones they found. The police were called. A girl it was. Murdered. Thirty years ago. Was it a girl? No, it was that prostitute, the one who used to walk up and down the High Street Friday and Saturday nights in high heels. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. All the same it was terrible, she and Derek finding bones in their own garden. The police sent in the forensics. Although was it their garden or the one next door? She and Derek buried their dog under the sumac tree. What a scramble her mind is nowadays. The dog’s name was Charlotte. Or was that the girl’s name? Names aren’t important. She can recall her own, and Derek’s. She won’t forget Derek. He’s buried at St. Peter’s. No sumac for him. But it was sad about that girl.