“Fifty years of public service”, my father sighed.
His hand moved slowly, tracing the edge of the crystal bowl.
I didn’t know what to say.
“They couldn’t even spell my name correctly… ”
Through the window I could see the naked branches of our oak sway with a persistent wind. The rain had ceased and even the magpies were silent. From far away I could hear a door being slammed shut.
I couldn’t look him in his eyes. As a son I couldn’t face my father’s tears.
“Can I make you some tea?”, I asked.
“Forced retirement…” he sighed again.
I remember the crystal bowl my father got after fifty years (?) of public service, but he was not forced to retire. I wonder how he would have reacted to that?
Friday Fictioneers is curated by Rochelle, who leads us through a journey each week writing to a new photographic prompt. Visit her and read he fantastic positive story on this bowl…
May 23, 2018