The Return

by Michael Howell 

sweet sherry 

The last time I saw my mother was twelve years ago.  I can’t remember how old she was, isn’t that terrible.  But I do remember her red hair.  It rolled past her shoulders like a wave.  The last thing I remember about her lovely face is the wetness from her tears.  My life certainly changed that day, when she disappeared.  I was twelve years old.  I withdrew… went inside myself.  Friends stopped coming round.  Dad went to pieces: couldn’t cope.  Not surprising, really.  It wasn’t his fault.  For me life changed irrevocably.  It didn’t stop, it just kind of went into limbo, faltered maybe.  That’s the way I’m thinking about it now, because I’m no longer a boy, I’m a man… okay, a young adult If you want to be pedantic.  I’m really looking forward to seeing her tomorrow.

The doctor’s said it was a virus that took my sight twelve years ago, but with today’s technology the damage can be repaired.  I can’t wait for the bandages to come off and I can see her again with her long wavy red hair.    

                                                                                                                

About the author

Michael is retired, having been a carpet fitter.  Following that, he worked for the NHS for nineteen years.  He belongs to a great writing group where fellow member, David Deanshaw, one of our that he should send some of his work to CafeLit