He bent down on the wooden planks, his old bones creaking as he leaned towards the shoes.
The material was a faded grey, washed far too many times. He remembered wanting to throw them out. He almost had, he remembered smiling. But then she’d begged him. Pleaded with her wide emerald green eyes that he couldn’t resist. She had the same eyes as her mother.
Slowly, he sat down, the shoes still in his hand. He stared out into the garden.
The old swing set, slightly moving in the cold morning air. How many times he’d pushed her. Higher and higher. She’d always been adventurous. Always in search of new things to know and to do. He’d always thought a thirst for knowledge was better than climbing the sides of mountains. So he’d let her be the journalist she’d always dreamed of being.
Of course she couldn’t just be the kind to write about the local life. She had to get out there. War journalism was far more up her alley.
“Come back inside, darling. Maybe it’s not even her.” His wife put a light hand on his shoulder.
He looked at her and held the shoes up. “She left these behind.”
©2018, FFftPP Week #41
Photo from August MorgueFIle 2018 1415390688o66bl
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