Seven Years


I had never been allowed in his garage.

None of us had, which might have been strange with anyone but him.

Aunt Nora said he’d been this way since his brother died, way back in the war.



The funeral was held despite the rain, since we are above all a practical family.

Aunt Nora came up to me as I was leaving and pressed a bunch of keys into my hand as she stood beneath my umbrella.

“You need to go through the garage,” she said.

Then, fishing in her black patent bag, produced an envelope from a local travel agent.

“I’m leaving for the islands.  Immediately. I bought an open ticket seven years ago and have been saving for this day.”

Her eyes had the old family fierceness, the same determination that had doomed five generations to the farm despite any plans to the contrary.

Now that he was gone, there was nobody left but me.

Aunt Nora was not asking.


Sunday Photo Fiction