The news of your death prompted our road trip – a chorus of excitement filled the car, our children unacquainted with the idea of death.
We found it standing empty, as if the house was holding on for our last visit. I’d wanted to show them the tree my father planted when I was born – the tree you and I had carved our names into.
But only pieces remained, scattered like ashes. And just like that there it was: our children’s first experience of real loss. I stood, barely, counting the billets: one for every year you held me: your prisoner.
This piece was created using the prompt (photo contributed by Rochelle) hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Addicted to Purple.
You can find other Friday Fictioneer stories HERE.