A drabble
This is dedicated to secretsolitaire who is going to Mississippi in the spring to help with hurricane rebuilding.
The pecan tree is his last stop. He parks the car and climbs over the fence, careful of the ancient wood. His goodbye is silent - a hand on rough, grey bark, a last look up at the generous canopy of his youth.
A sudden gust of wind and a rush of honeysuckle is all around, sweet and achingly familiar, and for a moment, Emmett is filled with doubt. Tightening his grip on the tree, he closes his eyes and listens to the leaves murmuring overhead.
North. True north.
Strange song for these parts. But one he’s ready to belt out.
The pecan tree is his last stop. He parks the car and climbs over the fence, careful of the ancient wood. His goodbye is silent - a hand on rough, grey bark, a last look up at the generous canopy of his youth.
A sudden gust of wind and a rush of honeysuckle is all around, sweet and achingly familiar, and for a moment, Emmett is filled with doubt. Tightening his grip on the tree, he closes his eyes and listens to the leaves murmuring overhead.
North. True north.
Strange song for these parts. But one he’s ready to belt out.