“When can we go home?” Arnie watched his mom battle with the campfire. She rubbed sticks together, cursed, then clanged rocks above the cold wood.
“Think of it as connecting with your ancestors.” A frog escaped his mom’s frantic fire starting attempts. He counted the colors in the sunset. Five. His ancestors could have probably counted more.
“I thought dad said we were Irish.” The rocks hit the ground with a muted thud as his mom sat back.
“Well baby, your dad said a lot of things.”
“Like, that he would meet us here?”
Arnie watched his mom look away.
Word Count: 100
For Friday Fictioneers. Many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff Fields
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