Photo: © Randy Mazie
“She insists on coming,” he noted without raising his head and even though I hadn’t worded my question.
The quiet breathed and a soft breeze rustled the leaves and made shadows caress the stones.
“She stands by the gate and belts until I take her,” he added and continued to wipe his already spotless glasses. His fingers trembled, from palsy or emotion or both, I didn’t know.
“She misses her, you see,” he glanced at the goat. “Rejected by her nanny, this kid was. My Mary hand-raised her. She was this kid’s rock. Now all that’s left is this headstone.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
