By Raymond Sloan
Walking his dog on those long summer evenings, John was joined by his only daughter, gripping onto the back pocket of his pants. Being towed along the country roadside. Trailing her father’s footsteps.
The years passed, as did the pet. His little girl became a woman and left, returning home on the rare holiday.
When John’s wife died, he decided he needed to get out more, and so, he got another dog. He walked the old route every day, his back pocket stuffed with his keys, phone, anything that would induce that feeling of his little girl still holding on.
“I write because I love writing.” – the writer