Thursday, March 29, 2012

After he failed to wake up

she slept with the sock, made of softest, bluest cotton, small enough to slide on her thumb. On the 390th day, her husband unfurled her fingers. Enough, he said, and took the sock, but not before she pressed it to her face, missing the powder smell, the last evidence her son once existed.



Another 53 word story from the good folks at PRESS53, this requiring the use of 'sock' as a launchpad. Peace

6 comments:

  1. You squeezed my heart with this one, Linda.

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  2. I can feel the sock against my cheek and the sorrow in my heart. Great words!

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  3. That is one of the saddest stories I have ever read. My heart broke.

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