When The World of Interiors announced a writing prize, I couldn't resist a new creative challenge. I put pen to paper and wrote the short piece below in response to their deliberately open brief 'writing home'. I didn't win, but it seemed a shame not put the story somewhere, so here it is - accompanied by an image from Venice Glass Museum. 

Murano

The swirling colours of Murano glass glinting on the windowsill looked vulnerable now that the room was bare. Everything was packed up, to sell, to give away or to keep. I was dusty, perspiring, and tired. I wanted to wash but I felt sick if I stood in her bathroom too long; felt sick if I stood still anywhere too long. So, I kept moving, fretting with a cobweb here or a curled carpet edge there; as if it would make any difference to the house price. Really my task was finished, and I should go. But I didn’t know how to leave – or how to stay.

So, I sat, statue-still, gazing at the Murano, remembering last week when one glass slipped free from shaking hands and rolled to the floor, spilling its contents of freshly picked garden flowers and leaving a puddle on the Turkish rug. Then I remembered Christmas, when we all sat about, not listening, as she told tales of her travels in Europe as one of the first air stewardesses. Only the famous flew then and you could feel the altitude in the cabin.

I had intended to stay practical as I packed today, mind on the task, feelings walled up. But there were little mementos of her life everywhere I looked. A drawer was stuck shut in an old wooden chest until I pulled too hard and it burst open; showering me with colourful scarves, like a magician’s trick. The scarves were finely made of silk and embellished with airline emblems. I wished that I had listened, when she spoke of cobbled streets, springtime parades, decorative masks and the man who blew burning glass between his lips.

We knew everything in her home had been collected as she travelled, an adventurous woman who never married. The Murano had stood on the sill for many years; often hiding a pound coin or a small sweet, placed there for a much younger me to discover on family visits. Today’s excavations held no such reward, as the day wore on and the dust moved around me. Deeper layers of her home revealed letters to strangers, tickets, Greek coins with holes at their centre, intricate handmade lace and then, unusual, a tiny baby’s dress wrapped carefully in ribbon.

It must be getting late. Though it is summer and not dark, I want to leave before it is. The house is so quiet; every story sellotaped into boxes, silenced now that she is gone. I think of lines, family lines, communications lines, tracks in the dust. How abruptly they stop.

Part of me wants to stay here, live here even. Forever holding on to the snippets of memories and traces of her, piecing puzzles back together. But I know I cannot. The house was only a home because of her. There’s no going back now except through the tattered box of photographs, old leather diaries, and those bright Murano glasses; swirling, glinting and still a little warm in the evening sun.