Short Story: Vestige

Oindrila Ghosal’s poignant story transcends from one memory to another of the protagonist, through the lenses of grief and memory. 

          When I first spoke to the motel owner over the phone, I gave him clear instructions on what my room should not be. He sprinkled “hmm” through my reeling of the list and assured me that the room would be curated to my taste before my scheduled arrival. But the room that I walked into with my suitcase this morning was a replica of how he had not paid heed to my rambling.

          Beaming beneath his bushy moustache, he explained that since his wife had left for her village, his efforts to fill in her shoes had been all over the place. 

           “And she always keeps the big rhododendrons by the bedside?”

            “Rhododendrons in spring and orchids in winter.”