In accordance with my father’s wishes, we planted the biodegradable cylinder containing a mix of his ashes, an organic nutrient and the precious seeds. Sentimental clap-trap? Or something more sinister?
Throughout the ceremony my siblings sobbed uncontrollably, casting speculative or accusatory glances at me, whilst I stood apart, dry-eyed.
I’d been his favourite; everyone knew that.
But only my mother knew why. And she wasn’t saying.
Today the ash tree stands forty feet tall, boughs reaching out for me. Once again.
And we’re all sharing the same thought.
No way should it have grown so tall in just twelve months.
A re-tread from me this week, slightly edited. How could I have forgotten it was Wednesday? The Friday Fictioneer’s photo this week comes from our industrious hostess, Rochelle. Is there no end to her talents?