I have another flash fiction piece published in the journal, 121 Words….

It was a trinket of sorts. I found the locket in the attic while looking for Papa’s photos. The clasp was broken and flung open as though wanting to be seen. The portrait on the left of the hinge looked like Mama, but the hair was shorter, neater. Mama had the air of a bohemian Parisian artist about her, a vague eccentricity, endearing her to some and infuriating others.

The man in the frame to the right also looked like Mama. The nose was larger, the eyes, piercing. I wondered if these were my grandparents. We had never gone through old photos. Maybe they thought we would have more time. We make the mistake of thinking there will be a tomorrow.

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