Chapter 7 - The Cleaning of the Temple — "I Burned Her Sheets in the Backyard and Restored His Memory!"
The house was finally silent.
The air still carried the faint, chemical tang of Jessica’s perfume, but the invaders were gone. The battlefield was won.
I didn't sit down to rest. I didn't cry.
I walked straight into the master bedroom. I grabbed the white sheets Jessica had slept on, the sheets she had painted her nails on, and I ripped them off the mattress with all the strength in my seventy-two-year-old body. I dragged them down the stairs, out the back door, and threw them into the stone fire pit in the center of the garden.
I poured a bottle of lighter fluid over the fabric, struck a match, and dropped it.
The flames flared up, bright and hot against the twilight sky, consuming the last physical remnant of their occupation. I watched the smoke rise, carrying the stench of her perfume away into the wind, leaving nothing but clean, pure ash.
When I returned inside, I spent three hours scrubbing every inch of the house. I washed the dresser with lavender polish until the wood glowed like gold. I brought my sewing basket out from under the table and placed it back in its rightful spot in the guest room.
Finally, I walked into the kitchen and opened the bottom cabinet. Hidden behind the pots and pans, where Matthew had hidden it, was my favorite blue coffee mug—the one with the tiny chip near the handle that George had bought me at the county fair.
It wasn't broken. It was dirty, but it was whole.
I washed it with warm water, filled it with fresh chamomile tea, and walked into the living room. I sat down in George’s green armchair. The fabric still held the slight imprint of his shoulders, the familiar comfort of a lifetime of love and protection.
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I looked at his framed photograph on the side table.
"I kept it safe, George," I whispered to the quiet room. "The roses are still standing."
