Laura comforts her aged mother at the front door. The auctioneer has stripped the house of furniture and function. She is grateful her mother has retained some personal treasures: reclining chair, reading lamp, worn photo album.
What keepsake for me, Laura wonders, to soften memories of lonely childhood among shadowy rooms bereft of easy affection?
“Your bed at Sunny Vale is waiting, mom. You’ll sleep easier tonight.”
Mrs. Gibson hands Laura a foggy, creased photo. A handsome man with lowered, haunted eyes. Her father: long departed, barely remembered.
“Do ghosts remain at home?” her mother says. “Or will they travel too?”
Gary Thomson lives in Ontario, where he enjoys riffing Beatles and blues on his Hohner harmonica between writing projects. His flash has appeared in Molecule, fiftywordstories [4], Fairfield Scribes, among others; and longer fiction elsewhere.