“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.
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| 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 here to read the prompt and here to read the other entries in the link-up.
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