Lit Up: Mad March Microfiction
On the door of the family home is a wreath of dead blossoms. The yard is a forest; the windows are opaque. It’s an empty house, a shadow of a ‘once was’.
At the gate, I stare at it.
It stares back.
The phone call had been brief. “She passed. I thought you knew.”
I push the gate open, stomp through the overgrown lawn, and yank the wreath from the door. I shake it, slam it to the ground. Wipe away angry tears.
“You were supposed to be here!” I yell at it. I need you.