Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Wednesday exercise: Improvise a story to a photo

It was cold. Freezing cold. I watched the ferry come closer. It wasn’t my time yet. I had to stay in the permanent winter this time as well. Mom used to talk a lot about warmth and summer and green and growing. As the world used to be. Before I was born, when mom was young. The ferry is supposed to take you there; to a place where summer still arrives once a year. When I and my sister became adults, mom took the ferry to summer land. Guess the longing after warmth became too overwhelming for her. After all, we kids were all grown-up and she choose to think we didn’t need her any longer. Suppose most parents from time to time want to do things just for themselves. Mom never returned. She said she would. But no one ever steps off the ferry. Me and my sister we knew it was the last we saw of mom. Still, for years we stood waiting when the ferry arrived, watching, and hoping. Her first grandchild arrived, and the second. I was expecting the third, my first, when I stood on the bridge that day, watching the ferry.

Somehow I’ve come to believe there is no place left on Earth where it is warm. I don’t know where the ferry goes, but I don’t think it is to a place on this planet. Maybe someday I choose to find out too.

Photo by Chiara Scura
Used with permission.