More stories to come, as I quit being lazy and start being a writer again.
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Mama
Mama hadn’t risen from her spot in the wingback chair in the living room in – dear God, had it been days? She sat in the darkness, the curtains drawn on the front window to block out any of the cheery afternoon light, the same Edith Piaf record playing to its end over and over again. Sometimes, she’d listen to the same song over and over, always the same song, if she so chose to repeat it – “Non, je ne regrette rien.” Did she have something she had thought was worth regretting? What had Mama been keeping from them, all these long years?
Did Papa know?
