I’ve clung to the fence, just outside, on the perimeter – too long.
There’s a cold beauty to the home where I am no longer welcome. I grasp the beautifully wrought fence and its cold seeps into my skin. The small protrusions and scrapings of rust scratch my palms. The house is visible through bare branches – trees I would swing from, trees you would protect from my rough hands, trees carefully tended by a gardener trimming for beauty and not for happy use.
Dear mother, I’m writing to tell you now I’m ready to let go.
Flash fiction written for Friday Fictioneers.
PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll