Flash Fiction – Warm Memories for Fuel
by Mick Wynn
Photo courtesy of Jan W. Fields
Such sweet memories. Christmas carols each year and how many party renditions of Roll out the Barrel? And Uncle Arthur and Uncle Fred doing their Hinge and Bracket renditions. Oh, the laughter that rang through this house.
Mum polished that piano every day and her mother before her. They called it Daisy. Pampered, like an old, trusty friend.
They’re all gone now and it’s cold outside. It’s laid down a foot of snow, even if I could walk; but it’s cold and there’s no coal left in the house. The polish should help it burn hotter.