“The red one, dad”, my son squeaked, bringing back all the memories that flooded deep within.
It had been a year since dad had left us and gone.
He had seen me become a father.
Today as I stand near the shooting balloons game on the beach, I think of him again.
|PHOTO credits Copyright – Marie Gail Stratford|
All the Saturday evenings that I spent playing this game with him flash before me.
It takes me to the day before he died. He had caught me drinking in depression.
A promise he took from me and breathed his last. The balloons looked similar to stacked bottles.
This is a 100 word fiction written for the Friday Fictioneers brought about by Rochelle Wisoff- Click to read the prompt andto read the other entries in the link-up.