My chest pounded as I stared at the bed. There lay floral sheets, closed eyes, and my mother’s frail fingers still warm in my hand.
“Let go,” she had said.
“No,” I had told her.
When the fingers grew cold I heard her voice again. That’s when I let go.
Gwendolyn Jacob is rediscovering her fictional roots and has several works in progress.
Made me cry. Powerful writing.
Thank you, Julia.
Very good! Way to go. Proud of you sis. I was looking to read more of the story!
Thanks sis.
Nice work. I always say it’s easy to write it long, and much harder to write it short.
Thanks and I agree.
Wow!