In my reading group yesterday, one of the exercises was to choose a line from a poem as a starting point. Here’s the line I chose:

“The smoke travels deep to the seat of memory.”

And here’s where it took me:

She sits to attention in her armchair beside the blazing fire, logs and coal aglow, her fingers blackened by the ink from last week’s headlines in the Free Press. She licks her thumb and forefinger before deftly rolling the large sheet of flimsy flammable paper to make a tight stiff scroll. She twists the tube and folds it like giant origami. And there it is – kindling for tomorrow’s fire. I look at her in silence, marvelling at her skill.

She disappears into the small kitchen. I hear the hot water tap gurgling while she concocts a heady mix of green Fairy Liquid and Imperial Leather to remove the stubborn ink from her wrinkled fingers.

A few years after she died, I asked Mam for Nain’s wedding ring. It was a simple gold band but the magic for me was where the band was worn thin from years of hard work. She never ever removed it.