The family farmhouse, recently passed to me, was built on strong old bones.
While preparing dinner, an apparition, hands dusted with flour, joined me.
The arched nose and cheeks dimpled like mine matched the faded photo on the wall.
She smiled. I smiled back; we still share the same heirlooms.
Mike lives in the middle of nowhere, writing stories of elsewhere.
Wonderful memories.
Thank you Sandra. This story is based on my daughter’s life in the family farmhouse and her visitors.
Love this! It is beautiful!
Thank you Johna, I appreciate that. Glad you liked it.