November. The fog has smothering fingers and my hair is sticky with rain.
I choke while opening the urn to spread her ashes… recalling:
“Can you see the dryad?”, my mother’s hand traced the curve of the soft bough. “We have to come back here next time you visit.”
I had ignored it then, before she declined deeper in dementia, before she ceased to speak, before she failed to wish.
Now I see the face of a young woman smiling from the timber. She opens her arms to receive my mother who sighs as she used to do:
OK, I went with the first impression of seeing a living thing in the tree, not to original i guess, but sometimes you just have to go with your first idea.
Rochelle on the other hand always come up with a new angle, and select the picture for Friday Fictioneers. The weekly challenge in the art of using hundred words as well as you can.
November 7, 2018