A week ago today our Mother left her physical form to walk the Path of Return. We have been celebrating her life this week, forging new and stronger relationships over shared food. Memories and stories are the condiments to this process of adapting our recipe for life to fit the new conditions.
Before she left I reminded her that I welcomed any contact she wished to make. Yesterday she did so with bright clarity. Her perceptive humour and common sense came shining through to help me as I tidied some of her belongings. Once again she has saved me from taking myself  too seriously. She was never an angel but wore no blinkers either. There is no one who could beat her for the well timed, telling phrase that made clear where effort could be best applied for optimum outcome. Today I am taking her advice to pick up dropped stitches and engage again with the fabric of life.
My thanks to everyone who sent message of support and kind thoughts during the last few weeks when I was unable to post any writing. I really appreciated your light touch. G's comment: worry and writing are poor companions- well, it was right on the mark, as usual. It is nice to be back and active within the circle of seen and unseen friends who share a creative way of being. Thank you cyber friends.

We had just got under way with Chapter 6 of the story before the break, so lets pick up again from there with just a small section.
I feel this pivot point of the plot needs reworking myself, but the mechanics of how to do that aren't clear right now. Maybe the personality aspects of redundancy could to be handled better. Any suggestions?

Chapter 6 continues:

By Monday evening a rental car and an itinerary were organised. Bill had decided a holiday up North in early spring was no bad thing. Putting Marsalis on the stereo, he made himself a scratch tea from the fridge. Later he mooched around considering whether he would take any carving gear with him. It might fill in an evening somewhere.

In his spare room Bill hit his toe on the boxes from work. He had thrown them in there when he got back from Philip’s place on Saturday. The top box teetered and fell off the stack, coming open at the flaps. Righting it, he stood staring down at the collection of memorabilia and stationery. The personal papers off his desk were all in a plastic sleeve, poked down the side of the carton. He took them out and stood idly leafing through them. There was a shirt to be collected from the dry cleaners across the road. He could do that before he left, but there wouldn’t be a lot of call for business shirts for the next little while.

Bill slid down to sit on the floor, leaning against the stack of boxes. He shook the rest of the papers out, to spread them on the floor beside him. One pink slip fluttered further away so he reached out to collect it and put it on the pile. Turning it over he saw it was the one from Rhona, last Friday morning. She never called his mobile in work hours. She always said there was no need to interrupt him. She would rather leave a message or email. She was like that. He screwed the paper into a tiny pink ball and ground it into his thigh.

Bill nearly got up to ring her then. Instead he put his head on his knees, trying to sculpt his eye sockets with his kneecaps. Some time passed before he sat up and smoothed out the note, flattening it as best he could. He pushed the rest of the papers out of his way and got up stiffly.

Over at the dresser where he kept his wood working tools he got out the set of chisels Rhona had given him. Unwrapping the chamois roll he ran a finger across the ash handles, stained with use. He noticed she had even had the edges honed for him. He hadn’t seen that before. Pushing the note inside an outer pocket of the roll, he rewrapped them with careful deliberation. That note said nothing important, just Ring Rhona please- with the date and time. Bill collected some other tools as well and put them all into his carving bag. He was ready to go.