My father’s desk, his books squared against the edge. Three pens, a pencil and an ashtray with one lonely butt. I pause and sit on the edge of the bed wondering how I’m supposed to ‘clear’ a dead father’s possessions. He will be back, surely, to check the ink in the fountain pen.
(Thank you to Sammi Cox for her fun weekend writing prompts – Flash Fiction … 53 words exactly)
