Wilmaria’s husband had slipped in the bathtub, then the heart attack gripped him like a handshake and a pat on the back for 77 years of good service. And good service it was. No house on the block went without juicy damsons, crimson strawberries, or a paper bag of autumn’s apple harvest.

She rubbed her fingers over the interlocking boards of cherry and walnut, and that friction kindled a warmth unsuited to her old grey eyes. Wilmaria’s memories, in spite of the years, were fresh and gentle. Heaven’s call, like a slab of granite, was impervious to her protestations. So, why bother with heartache?

After all: cut, crafted, screwed, and glued by her woodworking husband—the worktop persisted in functionality (and would continue to do so).

“Snip!” she said to herself in the confines of the potting shed.

Wilmaria was taking cuttings from her favourite flower. Her blade came down across the stem, just beneath a node, and then she dipped each cutting in rooting powder and placed it directly in the damp soil.

Some will take, some won’t.