Mama was such a pretty thing. Born Dorothy (of the Stones of Bath), but Papa G. always called her Dolly. The perfect wife, he often said: a willing bed-mate—she gave him seventeen of us little-uns; Peter’s the eldest, I’m the youngest; supportive, encouraging, she made him smile no matter the calamity. She had only one fault: she wasn’t the best of cooks. Indeed, I once overheard her friend refer to her rock-cakes as ‘Dentists Delights’. But you can see for yourself, our teeth litter the shore.
It was her cooking did for Papa G. Died of severe indigestion. It’s his head over there, left where fallen. Rest in peace, Papa G.
Written for What Pegman Saw.