A picture-perfect spring day: brisk breeze and fluffy clouds, hanging high against a nursery-blue. I climb the ladder to the loft to unfold stubby limbs of softest cotton, descend to wash away decades of dust in virgin suds.
They’re flapping on the line in tiny congruence. This one, and this I never dared to name. Ignore the idle chatter of forget-me-nots, the brash indifference of the tulips. Attend the bluebells, who nod their scented heads and say, it’s time. And I agree, as every mother must.
So one by one, unpeg them all and let them fly. At last.
M J Lewis ©2016
This is my hundred-word story for Friday Fiction, hosted each week by the gracious Rochelle. This strange and enigmatic photo comes from Mary Shipman. For more stories from around the globe click here.
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