THE WICKER BASKET

3:11 p.m.
She looked up towards the window from her seated position on the floor to see the branches from the live oak tap tapping in a frenzied dance against the panes.

3:11 p.m.
The house was silent now. On the first floor of the now almost empty cottage, all the possessions she had collected throughout her life lay in neatly sealed cardboard boxes.

3:12 p.m.
She began to breathe again as she watched the clock turn from 11 to 12. The wind whispered and ticked and at times screamed beyond the window.
She reached for the small, squat glass on the floor beside her: vodka and water, carefully measured so that she could drink all day long. This had become necessary after her father’s illness.
She shuddered at the memory of the room downstairs, the room where she had brought him to die. It had seemed like such a…