Free A Gift to You by Patricia Scanlan

nearly makes
me
cry as the soloist’s pure voice floats from the gallery, the notes dipping and soaring over the heads of the large group of mourners that are kneeling in this small country church
where my funeral Mass is being held.
    My funeral! How strange to think that I am ‘dead’ and about to be buried beside my husband, when the reality is that I’m
not
dead at all.
    It all happened so quickly, really: one minute I was sitting in the armchair by the window doing my crossword, as I did every morning after breakfast, and then I felt a pain in my chest. But
even as I crumpled, my mother and John came and held out their hands to me and I felt myself sort of float out of my body as I reached for them. It was the most indescribable feeling. I felt young
again. I had no aches, no pains, my eyesight was perfect. I felt reborn almost. I turned to look and got quite a shock I can tell you when I saw myself sitting in the chair. Who was that old woman
with the grey hair, head tilted sidways, glasses a little askew, paper slipping out of lifeless hands. Then I realized it was me.
    ‘Am I dead? I must be if I’m with you and John, ‘I said to my mother.
    ‘Not a bit of it. There’s no such thing as death; you’ve just passed beyond the veil of forgetting’ she said laughing, hugging me tightly, and I felt such joy to be with
her. My husband smiled at me, held out his arms to me, and my heart melted as I snuggled into his embrace. ‘It was a lovely tree, this year, not as good as mine, but good enough,’ he
teased. ‘Next year, we’ll put up the Christmas tree together.’

VALENTINE’S DAY

The Angel Of Love
    It was definitely the most comfortable bed that she had ever slept in, Irene O’Shaughnessy decided sleepily, as she snuggled into her cosy hollow and pulled the patchwork
quilt, which she had made herself, up over her ears. She would make herself a cuppa in a while. There was no rush to get up. She could lie in bed all morning if she chose. She could do just what
she liked. It was pelting rain, drumming on the Velux window in the ensuite in an angry tattoo. She had a great new detective novel to read; what better day than today for a laze in bed with a
book.
    The sound of an ambulance siren coming closer followed by a blue flashing light illuminating the grey morning gloom gave her a start. It must be Mrs Andrews again, she thought in dismay, as she
slipped out of bed and padded over to the window. Her elderly neighbour, who lived across the road, was in very poor health and had been whisked off to hospital by ambulance just a month ago, a few
days after Irene had moved into her new house. How different it was, she mused, living in the city with your neighbours so close to you that you could know what was going on as it was happening
rather than hearing about things second-hand at the village post office.
    Irene peeped through the curtains as the drama unfolded and watched as a figure was stretchered into the ambulance, followed by an agitated middle-aged woman sheltering under an umbrella. Irene
recognized her as Mrs Andrews’s daughter. The poor woman never had a minute’s peace with her ailing mother. Moments later, the ambulance was gone, siren wailing, and peace descended
once more on the small circle of houses known as Sea View Close.
    Irene shivered. She was so lucky to have her health and to be able to enjoy life, unlike her poor stricken neighbour who couldn’t make the most of her lovely new home and pretty garden.
She let the curtain fall back into place again and hurried back to the warmth of her bed. She switched on the electric blanket and arranged the pillows cosily around her. The rain battered the
windowpane relentlessly, the wind moaned and wailed under the eaves but she was as snug as a bug in a rug with nowhere to go and no one depending on her. It was the greatest feeling in the world,
Irene thought with satisfaction, as she stretched languidly and curled her feet up