I wanted the picture to be a promise.
A symbol of love that smells like a fresh bloom. Time fades in the background.
A place that didn’t really matter anyway.
It sits on my desk and whispers stories I’ve never heard. Was she ever that young? Those hands didn’t belong to her, aged, wrinkled and riddled with veins and spots at the end.
The picture ties me to her other life. A life without me. Eyes that look hopeful but cautious, not fully knowing anything. Soon to be a bride, then a mother, my grandmother.
Promise me we’ll see each other again.
Promise.
Nice writing, Jo. I especially like the line: It sits on my desk and whispers stories I’ve never heard.
Hi Jim. Great to hear from you! Thank you for the compliment. Appreciate it. Hey, join Dilettantelife and start writing your own stories. Just register and get started. Cheers.