Mrs Corville lived at number 15 Denworth Street. She’d lived there for 15 years. It was the house she and her husband Michael had brought for their retirement. Leaving the big family house where they’d raised their four daughters behind for something smaller. She was now alone, having out lived her husband.
There was a primary school further up the road. Every day the children would come bumbling out and giggling as the raced around on the energy of youth. The noise was fine, the teachers were fine, the children were fine. It was the parents.
She didn’t know if all parents with small children forget how to park and basic road safety, but enough of them did. They double parked, went too fast, went when they didn’t have right of way. It was just dangerous.
They parked across her drive, whilst double parking. It was annoying, and dangerous, so she complained.
For years she complained, hoping to have some white lines or something to stop the reckless of the parents. Over the years their parking had gotten worse so she had complained more.
No white lines appeared.
Everyone on the road knew of her complaints and they agreed with her.
Still no white lines.
Mrs Corville had had a long life and that had caught up to her. She’d passed youth, and tragic death. She’d reached a die-able age, one where people have the comfort of a long and happy life to get through the mourning. All death is tragic, but some is fair and some are cruel. Old age is one of the nicer ways to die. Her heart was weak, which was ironic because her metaphorical heart was so strong.
Have the operation with a 20% survival rate or die? It’s not much of a choice. So she agreed to the operation. Whilst under she suffered a stroke, so they stopped the procedure. Mrs Corville didn’t have the 20% chance anymore. It’s funny how blunt death is.
Each daughter spent a day by her hospital bed saying their unprepared goodbyes. Full of the strong love of her weak heart. She passed away at the end of the week. It was a Friday, just after the children had been let out of school.
The house now stands empty, it will sell by the end of the month. Outside, just past the kerb on the old concrete road, they painted white lines on the road.
She’s not dead and gone yet.