The Blue Jumper

Adela opened the bottom drawer looking for a receipt and found six years of things she had agreed to keep.

Envelopes of photographs. A roll of ribbon. Three place cards in Sennen’s handwriting, saved from a birthday meal because nobody else had thought to take them. Beneath everything lay a blue jumper with a tiny repair at the wrist.

The receipt was not there.

She sat back on her heels. Thursday afternoon, one collection cancelled, an hour she had intended to spend catching up. The drawer had developed the density of a badly stuffed cushion. Every time she opened it, she added something small and closed it before it could become a job.

Now the ribbon had caught round the runner. She pulled gently. A place card slid out and landed face down on the floor.

She turned it over. Her own name, in Sennen’s impatient capitals, with a star…