Mama collected. Everything. She said every object had worth, a history. It was her calling to tell their stories in her art.
She rummaged and searched, brought home strays and leftovers. She lost herself in jagged tales of glass, crumbled fables of stone, and splintered sagas of wood. Beautifully woven rubbish.
She discarded my story, forgot my worth.
Mama died a year ago, but she’s still here watching over me. Jagged glass had more than one use, more than one story to tell. I think she’d be pleased with my cutting-edge memoir of her.
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers; 100 words or less based on the photo. I’ve been gone a while. I almost forgot how to write and blog, but it came back to me. Click on the badge below if you would like to read some of the other stories.