Clutch
The way I remember it, your dad was dying, not mine, his purple-blotched feet peeking out the edge of the hospice bed, its cold rails raised against a fall. Either a cross or a froth of agnosticism clutched in one hand. Either the priest or the doctor slouched in the hallway, a bible or a sleep-packed syringe in a chokehold. Peonies slumping in vases. Was it your mother or mine shopping for a black dress or pantsuit, a take-home roast beef or ham and scalloped potatoes for guests not yet gathered? Grandchildren galloping, quarreling in the yard. Clucking like chickens.
Photo Credit: burrs&berries
Outstanding. A moving example of what can be done with 100 words. It doesn’t feel like the story is being rushed or crammed in to fit the form. It’s perfect.
“The way I remember it, your dad was dying, not mine… Was it your mother or mine shopping for a black dress or pantsuit,…”
Wow, this really sent a punch to my gut. Brought me right back to my grandfather’s passing last year.
“Was it your mother or mine shopping for a black dress or pantsuit, a take-home roast beef or ham and scalloped potatoes for guests not yet gathered?”
I love this! Such an evocative piece in so little words.
Loved this! A clear picture formed in my mind with those few words!