Friday Morning
By birksy
As Friday mornings go, This hasn’t been a good one, hasn’t been a good one at all. My wife told my eldest, it’s just Mummy’s room, now, Daddy’s moved on upstairs. Then I watched, as my gloves fell, gently tumbled, over the edge, of the platform before the next train arrived. To top it all, off came my wedding ring, let the rain beat on my finger, so snugly sheltered for the past nine years. As Friday’s go, it’s not a good one, but still: my son accepted his father’s fate, the guard said he’d retrieve my gloves, and my finger, feels it’s old self, again. Written February 1st, 2002 © on Jan 31 2002 08:19 PM PST, Simon Birks 0 • 12
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"As Friday mornings go,..."