Return of the prodigal


Her hands still trembled a little every time the phone rang. Somehow she could never let that fateful night out of her mind when her world tipped itself over. While sitting at her window and staring out unseeingly at all the signs that life had moved on since then, she felt stuck in that one moment; reliving it over and over. What could she have done to prevent him from going out? Were there some signs that she had been too blind to see? He had left that night with his wide big smile and a promise to return quickly. He had lied.

Time moved at a snail’s pace for her. The day seemed to stretch out like a gum that she had been chewing for hours at an end – disfigured and tasteless. The evening was no better. To her, the color of the dying sun was the red that seeped out while her own son lay dying under the crushed car. The smudged darkness of the night was the kohl that had run down the cheeks of his pregnant wife. The cawing of the birds seemed to join in their lamentations. The stars, mere holes in the sky, through which she hoped he smiled down on them.

Tiny, warm chubby hands held on to her arm as the rest of his body tottered precariously in an effort to remain standing. On his ruddy little face was written quite plainly the determination to do the impossible. She could feel a little warm spot stirring awake inside her even through the cold numbness that had been her companion this past year. A mini version of her beloved son stood looking at her expectantly with his arms wide open. How could she not let him in?

Written for Michelle’s Photo Fiction #72


7 thoughts on “Return of the prodigal

  1. Pingback: Photo-Fiction #72 | Random_Michelle

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