We were so poor, my father once paid off the hired help with my dog.
My mother left the following year; that was tough too.
“Where do you think they’re living now, Dad?”
“The next valley, son.”
Seemed like everything I loved lived in the next valley so, eight years old, I trudged all day towards the horizon to discover the next valley, as empty, barren and unforgiving as this.
My Dad was defensive.
“I said the next valley, son.”
Eventually, I left too.
“I’m getting older, son, where will you be if I need you?”
“The next valley, Dad.”
The first Friday Fictioneer offering of the autumn. It seems to have been a long and lovely summer here, our first in our new home on the south coast. Hard work, but worth it all the same. No stranger to hard work is our illustrious leader, Rochelle who celebrated a birthday this week. Thanks for all that you do, Rochelle. And I know you won’t have forgotten this song, but just in case… 🙂