The Place

The directions on the paper proved the place was real. Since his friend's funeral a week ago, he had been wrestling with a memory of himself as a child, lounging on a rock beside a creek. He had left something there. That place had a story to tell and he needed to hear it. His dad remembered nothing. "I can't think of anything that happened there that is worth the special trip.” Even so, David needed to see it. He had to know why it bothered him.

David stood beside a much smaller version of the boulder he remembered. The creek was more of a stream. Both were unremarkable. The flowers, bowing to the wind, grabbed and held his attention. The flowers had been calling him back. He remembered picking them during a warm evening for his mother. She was beautiful with them in her hair. They were the last flowers he had given her before she passed.