Coat Pile
On the bed in his parent’s bedroom the coat pile grows, humped up like a mutant octopus, tentacles smelling of cigarettes, perfume, and leather. When everyone is sufficiently drunk, the son sneaks in, rifles through the pockets, and takes a little change from each. His eyes perk thinking he feels paper money. But it is just a handwritten note in the furry pocket of a woman’s coat, signed by his father. He doesn’t really know the words, but recognizes love, pain, and knows they’re private words. Words that mean goodbye, words he can’t undo, even if he puts them back.
Photo Credit: Beret Olsen
Excellent premise well developed, then the turn from mischief to seriousness is deft.
Bingo – good one!!!