Odd shapes shine on linoleum, on table. Wind outside splays triangles of leaves displaced on again, off again, the clouds whisk like milk boiling on the stove. Struggle, dear mother. Coffee dreams drown bourbon breath bathing father’s last wish. Struggle no more, precious mother.
Mother retrieves a crystal cut tumbler from the kitchen cupboard at father’s behest. Into it she pours the golden liquid until it brims.
Mother and father are alone, as they usually are since the children moved on, brother with his family, boy… mother thinks of boy’s wanderings as something that will certainly bore him eventually.
“Where’s my drink?” father demands.
“I’m coming!” mother cries with cheer.
To continue, click here.
Linda G. Hill 
Oh God – that short few words – made me cry – ‘where’s my drink father demands – I’m coming – mother cries with cheer..’
Do you have a recipe for making wine dear? 😉
So glad you’re enjoying it. 🙂
My recipe for wine is, go to the wine store, pay to have it made, go back in a month, bottle it myself, drink it. It’s that simple! 😀
lol! OK – TA! 😀
Reblogged this on Idiot Writing and commented:
A lot of folk probably know our dearest Linda – but have you got on her plate yet? I adored this write…thanks LInda?
Few words said, yet much to ponder.
🙂 Glad you liked it.
🙂