I saw the sign. I heard her small voice say, “we should turn back.”
Jermaine, I chastised, always too sure of yourself.
The sky sure is blue from here. Small clouds, formed into puffs of slight dog fur, float by casting their shadows among the scattered glass.
If I could speak … a thousand things I know I should say.
An impromptu apology to my momma, for what I don’t know.
Maybe all the years of grief … maybe all the years to come.
Beside me her eyes stare like glass, reflecting rolling hills and jagged cliffs.
Her lips are so blue.
PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg
Many thanks to the wonderful Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for rounding up Friday Fictioneers