Days after the storm had passed, I visited my village with a trepidation in my heart. The neighbourhood looked like a war zone. My favourite big oak tree now leaned on our yard. The porch was ripped apart. The rocking chair on which he used to sit for his post-dinner round of smoke was lying helpless without legs. I got a lump in my throat seeing the roofless greenhouse. He used to grow exotic plants there.
But, the makeshift garden gear rack, which we’d built together, surprisingly remained intact.
“I wish I had not fought with father that night before leaving.”
Written for Friday Fictioneers
PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook
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