Down the Hill
Mrs. Knox pushed the heavy wheelchair up the hill for the third time that day, then stopped, turned it around and released it. She pulled her gloves off both hands, finger by finger, cupped her hands in front of her mouth and blew. Mrs Knox’ hands hadn’t been warm for as long as she could remember.
The wheelchair careened down the incline, gaining speed and she turned at the sound of the crash. She put her gloves back on and slowly stomped down to the heap of metal, under which was her husband.
She passed the row of town houses she had seen every day for the last forty years, each with a different coloured front door. Marjorie lived at number 21 behind the green door, and Betty at number 35 behind the black door. She’d regretted painting it that colour because she had to wash it every day. Tom and Pippa had been living behind the red door, but moved away when their only son was killed in the Iraq War. Marjorie knew every member of every family that lived behind those coloured doors.
Pulling the wheelchair off him, her husband let out a groan. “Blimey Nora!” he said.
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“Well, I do keep telling you,” she replied.
“But it’s so much fun!” He was sitting with a blanket over his thin legs. “And when you can’t feel anything anymore because your body has given up on you, it’s so nice to feel the wind in your face.”
Her lips turned up a little at the corners. “I suppose. Again?”