Writing: Hugging a grave stone – Flash fiction

I heard the pop and fizz of another can being opened and my heart sunk. I may be three but I was intuned to every sound and movement waiting for daddies anger to erupt by a volcano and more often than not the bubbling inferno was quenched by the pale ale that never seemed to run out.

I remember the rain lashing down the skies grey and heavy like our hearts. It may have been winter but I was wearing my tartan dress with no tights and my sleeves grubby. My hair hadn’t been brushed and it seemed days ago since I had nana’s shepherds pie.

I was playing with my dolls when daddy fell asleep in front of the fire with the back door. The room was dirty and that made me sad but I didn’t cry. I miss mummy I needed to speak to her and ask her to come back but she was playing statues in stone in my friend, Jesus’ garden.

The pavements were digging into my bare feet. I was carefully to dodge the puddles because mummy said if you get your feet wet you sneeze.

It was dark by the time I reached the squeaky gate and the grass in his garden was as tall as a jungle!

I found mummy and begged and pleaded. I muttered and sobbed as I hugged her headstone and where she would usually be squishy she was stiff and cold.

A while later, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was daddy with a pair of strappy sandals in one hand and rose in the other. We laid down the rose and went on our way. The rain fell as we passed the pub and daddy looked like our old puppy, Rover wanting to go in and play. He stared longingly but instead walked on, and squeezed my hand.

As we came out the shop laden with food, new undies, the lemon stuff that washed the loo which I wasn’t allowed to touch and we headed back home.

The sun shone and I knew mummy had listened. Sometimes it takes losing someone you love to make you realise how lucky you are to live on.

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