Seeds

Thank you to Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers! This is definitely one where I looked very, very closely at the picture and let my imagination run wild.

PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford

Seeds

Kid gloves. Irony. Everyone around me dons them.

Instead of being the microscope specimen under their hovering visages, worried eyes, voices decibels shy of brittle, I meditate over the milkweed that has gone to seed. The cottony spindles undulate. Mesmerized, I draw nearer. Bodies writhing, humans, not plant seeds.

The one in center, head bowed: My Nathan. He alone is immobile. The mouths of the others are open, wailing to the sun.

I glance toward the window where my family watches.

How do I tell them that my husband, children, have been reborn? A sharp wind carries them away.

 

Sascha Darlington

2/25/2018

 

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14 replies »

  1. What an astonishing narrative. The grieving mother and wife seems to receive an assurance of the continuity of the lives of her husband and children, albeit a very ambivalent one with little consolation. Excellent writing, Sascha.

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