In Search of Lost Mornings
Often then I’d wait at the bay window, nodding with fatigue, as the soft slow light of dawn filled the street. Trees – Horse Chestnut, I think – between soot-blackened brick; pigeons dozing on sills. Then – joy! – a distant figure, the familiar lilt of his walk, distinct even at this time of day. My father’s muffled tread on the stairs, key in the lock.
My mother calls – Who’s there?
– Just me, m’dear.
Then a wink for me – Alright Sprout? – and scuttle back to bed, my secret safe.
And all the long years following, regretting that easy melding of souls.
MJ Lewis ©2015
Sometimes my computer annoys me and sometimes it amuses me – a normal working relationship then. This week when writing a comment about Proust’s sentences – it’s what the internet is for, and cats of course – my bad typing of Proust was creatively corrected to Sprout. Well it amused me!
PS I have in no way attempted to imitate Sprout’s – sorry Proust’s – prose style, but I will save the possibility of a 100-word one-sentence FF for another time. Could be fun to try.
Thanks as always to our host Rochelle (this week also for the evocative photo) and to all who visit.
Many more tales (wise, weird and wonderful, and sometimes all three) here.