So Much Depends

She stared through the rain-streaked window. Her father’s white chickens were pecking the ground near the red wooden wheelbarrow he had built last summer for her two year old son. She bit her lip. They were no longer his chickens and he would never again lift the boy to his lap to sing “Hey Diddle Diddle” in his rusty old voice.

“Grampa sleeping?”

She turned and lifted him to the window. “Yes, Grampa is sleeping.” She laid her cheek against his soft hair, fighting the tears.

“Wheelbarrow!” he cried. “Chickie!”

She hugged him to her and breathed in his newly-bathed smell. “White chickie,” she said.

Copyright2013 Loretta Miles Tollefson


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