He lost his mother.
They were out in the night; she wandered off.
It wasn’t the first time. They’d be sitting on kitchen chairs in the yard telling stories—she had eighty-some years of them—and she’d stand up, shaky on a hip that didn’t work much anymore.
“Be right back,” she’d say, and usually she would be. After a walk in the woods. A squat and a pee.
This time though, he had lost her.
“Ma,” he called into the dark. “Ma?”
He heard it then: what was to come soon enough. Any day now. The grief. The loss.
“Ma?”
Oh, this is sad.
Thank you for reading. And for the feedback.
So much in so few words. Powerful.
Thanks, Kathleen. Preciate it.
Sad story; brings a tear to the eye.
Thanks for reading and taking the time to comment, Bobby Warner.