By Clara Becker
She laid the gerbera daisies upon the cold stone. They were Edith’s favorite.
“Danny lost his job. They told him Friday.”
The woman was quiet for a minute, then sighed. “He misses you. We all do. What happened, E? How did it get so bad?” She sat there for a few moments longer, maybe waiting for an answer, then sighed again. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
The woman got up and brushed the dirt off her pants. She walked to the gate and looked up at the darkening sky. “Why did you go, sis?” Then she was gone.
“I write because I think that my fiction tells more about me than I can say.” – the writer