Barefoot in the Grass
Ficlets and Ficly survivor, FicMom, and Mistress of Well-Intentioned Indecision and Goddess of Unrequited Love. @ElshaHawk @HawkandYoung
My eyes looked up from the photograph in my hand. It was of a picnic, the last place we were all together. I was standing in the park, looking at the exact location, a grassy spot beside the pond with the fountain under a tall oak that leaned a bit too far out over the water.
I remembered nothing.
"This is stupid!" I declared, lowering the photo but not dropping it.
"Try," urged the person my index card labeled 'sister' but my brain called 'stranger'.
"To do what?! I don't remember that day, the reason we were barefoot, what was so funny, who took the picture, or even how I related to the people!"
She took my arm and pulled me to the middle of the spot. "Stand here. Close your eyes and think."
I sighed, closed my eyes, and imagined what that day might have been like. I smelled the water. I heard the ducks. I felt the sunshine. Someone laughed, a titter that stirred something deep. I concentrated.
Pulling off my shoes, I felt the grass on my feet. "We didn't have grass at home," I remembered.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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