Mother Dear

Dear Mother,

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.

Ever yours,


Flash fiction written for Friday Fictioneers.

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

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