Dolores was seventy-seven years old. Her husband had run off twenty-six years earlier. A daughter, Lois, had died of leukemia aged seven. Years and years ago. Her son, David, was in the army and died in a freak explosion. Oh the humiliation of a soldier dying while not at war.
So that left Dolores, in her single bedroomed apartment, with nothing but a few photo albums. And her African violets. Yes! African violets! Delicate. Intricate. Dainty.
She loved her African violets. She was an expert in African violets. Pink ones, purple ones, white ones, maroon ones, blue ones. Her African violet collection was a patchwork quilt of sheer loveliness. Simple pastel beauty.
When they found Dolores dead in her apartment, from a probable heart attack, all of her African violets were dead too. They hadn’t been watered for months.