Bare feet on a frost covered lawn. I’m thrilled by the intensity of sensation. Brittle blades of grass and ice gently spike into my tender soles, brief pain of their resistance followed by the satisfying crunch as they crack under my weight. A trail of perfect melted footsteps follows me from the kitchen door to the woodpile, and I load up, shaking each piece of stringybark to dislodge the hiding huntsmen spiders. The smells of morning permeate; wood-smoke, toast, tea.
Chill numbs my toes; I retreat to the warmth of home, family.
100 word fiction
Feeling homesick for family in today’s Friday Fictioneers, so this 100 words is almost straight from my memory. It could describe any of hundreds of winter mornings when I was sent out as a child to get wood for the fireplace. Click here to check out the other stories.
I’m not sure this is even a story, as I can’t really see a defined beginning, middle, end. I don’t care, writing this was cathartic.
I got the unfortunate news that my Grandmother died late last night (83), liver failure resulting from cancer. There was not long between learning about the extent of the cancer and her death – a week perhaps – so I hadn’t really found time to prepare myself. I got the message right after hitting publish on last night’s post.
I thought hard about whether I wanted to write this, write anything at all, but I actually feel better for getting these words down.
Ma, you will be missed.