The Urn

                                 

                                       The Urn

Norma, browsed the vintage showroom nestled between Gucci and Cartier in Old Bond Street, not looking for anything in particular.  But the antique urn with its fresh butterfly design captured her imagination. She tried to walk away, knowing her husband would object. How often had she come home with an item of historical beauty, spending more than they could afford on her passion for the unusual.  Passion that her husband was convinced was an addiction.

She walked down other aisles, but the urn nagged at her and eventually, not able to shake off the feeling that it was meant for her, gave in, handing over crisp notes with shaky hands and a flutter in her heart.

She sat on the number 19 bus, stared out at the grey, crowded streets of London. A sea of umbrellas bobbed and weaved. Her arms caressed the carefully wrapped package perched proudly on her lap.
   

By the time she got home she was sure she had a convincing story for her husband.  She had time before he got home to unwrap it, move other treasures out of the way to give it pride of place and make herself a cup of tea while she composed and calmed herself. She got as much excitement out of finding a special place for a new object as she did  purchasing it. 

“What on earth...” staring, he walked over to the new ornament now adorning the mantelpiece. Norma sat  on the couch opposite. At her husband’s entry into the living room she put the  cup and saucer down carefully on the coffee table,  got up and walked towards him. His tone was not friendly and the tightness in his brow made his face  look ugly and contorted.

“Do you like it dear?” she proceeded cautiously, persuasively. “It looks great here...don’t you think, with the ...colour matching ...the curtains. .. I’ve been looking... for something ...like this for ages.” Her words stumbled, but she smiled encouragingly pretending not to notice the tense situation. She  took the urn down, caressed it, held  it up in front of him.

“Well, how much did you spend this time?” He sighed in accusation. He fell onto the couch. This was becoming too regular an occurrence but he was too tired to argue further.

“It wasn’t that much...”

Still holding the urn, she sat beside him. Although he was weary with her continual spending, he found that, as he gazed on the unique pattern and exquisite colour, he was, in fact quite taken with this piece. She went on:

“Anyway, It’s worth it...you know.... it’s unique... nobody else has one...”

“Yes, yes, alright,” he interrupted.

She held it lovingly for minute or so, deciding that she would give it a clean and a polish before she put it back.

She gathered cloths, antique cream and soft brushes, settled herself down to the job in hand. When she removed the lid the colour drained from her face,
 

“Oh my goodness,” she murmured. She  stepped  away from the vase , “ oh my word, it can’t be...ashes... someone’s ashes...”