I cried when it rained last night. Mom, imprisoned in a portrait, smiled back. It was exactly a year ago that the floods took her. She’d gone out to catch fish.
I visited the municipalities last evening, howling, demanding her back. Somehow. They stroked my chin, pulled my cheek, and shoved me away.
“Kids,” the chief said. “That’s what they get in their type of life.”
Her ashes were now in the gutter, mixed with the sewage, tar, and excess concrete these municipalities used to renovate the roads.
Dad, awoken by my wails, came and closed my door. Mom’s portrait, blocked.
Poignant story. “Mom, imprisoned in a portrait, smiled back.” Great line!