A small room above a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.
On the table, a pickle jar stuffed with cornflowers, bachelor's buttons or hurtsickle, depending on who you are. Whatever the name, these flowers have been in decline due to agricultural intensification, the cornflower being happiest where grains are grown.
Before the flowers, a sheet of poster paper. On one side, a glue stick and scissors; on the other, a magazine cut to bits. Someone has pasted a tractor in the middle. On one side of the tractor, a barrel of oil; on the other, a bottle of glue.
There is someone in the hall. A woman's voice. She is asking after someone who no longer lives here, an older man who walks with crutches.