My mother knew she was dying. After we had organized her affairs, she asked me a difficult question: What would become of Maude, the 85-year-old mannequin inherited from her mother, who we treated like family? I vowed I would handle it.

But in the town car after the funeral, my brothers and I had yet to reach an agreement. Maude, who’d attended the service, took in our conversation under watchful glass eyes; her painted on eyebrows registered slight surprise at our struggle to settle on her next home.

Maude came into our family when my mother’s teenage sister, Mary Maude, died from pneumonia in 1942. Later that year, my grandmother discovered a look-alike mannequin in a dress shop and was so stunned by the resemblance to her daughter she fainted. She begged the owner to sell her so she could take her home.

The mannequin’s round face, wideset aqua eyes and elfin nose could have been modeled after Mary Maude (or honestly, after my mother). Her addition to their home seemed a natural way to mourn, and there was minimal alarm when both my grandparents fussed over her like a living, breathing daughter.

It was said that Grandfather gave the life-sized doll Christmas gifts and a Tiffany necklace on what would have been the real Maude’s 18th birthday.

Eventually, Mom inherited Maude, and my siblings and I cautiously welcomed her in like a weird cousin. She was interesting and quirky. When she sat in the living room window seat, she deterred would-be burglars, and from the front seat of our car, she was our silent bodyguard. Mom was never alone. Maude was a companion, rather than a crutch, who attended holiday dinners and our sporting events and even a family wedding.

When Mom died, I thought my brothers and I would share ownership of Maude, but by the time we arrived at our childhood home for the post-funeral gathering, I knew she was my responsibility alone.

Maude watched me set out sandwich and fruit trays. She looked elegant in her black chiffon dress, legs crossed as she relaxed on mom’s settee.

The house was as clean as a showroom; Mom and I had prepared emotionally and physically during those final weeks of acceptance and surrender. Together we had distributed Mom’s tchotchkes and photographs to loved ones. She revealed the sentiments tied to pieces of jewelry or a vase acquired overseas. I memorized her words and how she gestured with long, delicate fingers. While she started sleeping longer, I shredded paperwork and donated piles of old clothes, including Dad’s. I was primed but not ready for her to go.

Mother lived to be 78. I had known Maude for as long as I’d known my mother.

“If I don’t keep you, I feel like I’m losing a version of Mom,” I said aloud.

“I’ll stay if you need me,” Maude said.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

I didn’t want Maude’s significance or my emotional attachment to intensify. I’d had too much therapy to become codependent on a doll.

After the reception, I made some calls. A young man from a local art gallery agreed to take her, but when he pulled up in a red pickup truck to cart her away, I cried. The bearded 20-something stopped and listened while I tried to explain Maude’s history and importance.

Sorrow is a funny thing. As I laughed through sobs, I saw that the gallery owner had experienced loss too. Even as he questioned my sanity and Mom’s, he pledged to take good care of our family mannequin.

All that grief felt like love. I knew the emotions were for my mother, not a mannequin. Still, when I buttoned her traveling coat and perched the hat atop her rolled bangs, Maude’s knowing eyes seemed to question me: How could I abandon her?

“I’ll visit, I promise,” I said.

I kept my word. Every time I drove by, there was Maude in the gallery window, her long arms and graceful hands pointing to signs and introducing exhibits.

Then she became the exhibit.

The young man’s artsy window displays grew edgier. Sometimes he posed Maude in positions that landed the gallery in the newspaper, boycotted, and fined. He repainted Maude’s body (anatomically correct), brightened her red lips and added an airbrushed twinkle to her watercolor eye.

She looked happy, delighted to be working again. Her playful expression seemed to say, “I’ve moved on too; thank you for letting me go.” ¦

Winner sensed something of importance in truck

First-place winner Karen Hanlon, who entered eight rounds of this year’s Writing Challenge, said the scene for “Maude” came to her quickly.

“When I saw that little face in the truck bed, I felt it must have been something important to somebody — important enough to move it from wherever it had been to someplace else,” she said. “From there, the story came quickly.”

Here’s the real story behind the picture:

Florida Weekly Graphic Designer Scott Sleeper took this picture at our Fort Myers office one day. He and some colleagues were looking out a third-floor window at an unusual scene of people working out — as in exercising — in the parking lot on a sweltering August afternoon. “Then I looked straight down,” he said, “and saw something even more unusual.”

And here are excerpts from some of the 20 other stories we received that were inspired by the red pickup truck picture:

¦ Finally, Marissa came up the stairs with one last box. “We’re done,” she announced with a triumphant smile.

“Really?” her father said as he walked over to the window and looked down at the truck in the parking lot. “Nope,” he said. “I see one more box down in the pickup.”

“No, we are done, Dad,” Marissa said. “That last box goes back home. It’s my bride doll. I’ve had her since I was little. I thought I’d bring her here to keep me company. But I really don’t think I’ll need her.”

“Journeys Taken” Brian Blaine, Naples

He saw the bold headline on the flyer. “Yes, you can take it with you,” he murmured, reading out loud.

Excited, Pete grabbed his flip phone out of his overall pocket and punched in the number. The salesperson was very friendly, and answered all of his questions.

“Yes, all of your belongings can be incinerated with your corpse! This can include a home cleanout and storage units.” The salesperson was very perky and enthusiastic. “The ashes will then be sent to the loved ones listed in your Personal Resource Document.”

“Old Pete” Beth Cooper, Lehigh Acres

¦ Together they unloaded angel and painting from the truck and hauled both inside. Kevin snorted with laughter as they set them on his couch and surveyed them. “Oh, my God,” he tittered, shaking his head. “Aren’t I lucky.”

“Family Matters” Cece Daratany, Lake Worth Beach

¦ We humored Mom, who had great faith and prayed to the Virgin Mary often. There was a six-foot stone grotto in the rear yard that held a beautiful statue of Our Lady in a blue gown. During my brothers’ tours in Vietnam, she went out there every evening after dinner and prayed for their safety. She worried something awful over them, except for those nights when Mary winked at her.

“A Wink and a Prayer” Joseph P. Farley, Cheltenham, Pa.

¦ The funeral was quiet. He was a force and a spirit that left your heart warm and your belly tight from laughter. Skeeter’s wife drove his bouncing big old red truck across the grass right up to his grave.

“Mandy” Wendy Seale, West Palm Beach

¦ Come on. Admit it. You’ve stolen something. Probably after a few beers or on a dare. Or both. You justified it as a souvenir. Now it lives in the back of a closet or at the bottom of a drawer.

“Resurrection” Patti Walsh, Fort Myers

¦ Unknown to Mike, there was a cataract specialist on the ninth floor who had a waiting room full of nosy old seniors taking turns looking out the 90-foot-high window at the face of the CPR dummy showing. Even with their old senior eyesight, it was the consensus of the group that it was the face of a dead woman. It was also agreed that someone should call 911 …”

“Dummy Death” Charlotte Wiggins, Miami

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