Eleanor Rigby by michaelcahill Choose One Of The Following Titles writing prompt entry |
I doubt there's any warmth coming off this candle, Mom. The chill from my heart is surely making for a cold flame. I missed your little service today, everybody did. Father Mackenzie spoke anyway, he always does. People are here now, the usual folks from who knows where. The candles are pretty I must admit.
My mother, Eleanor Rigby, the town lush … is it any wonder I changed my name? You were just as dead to me as a seven-year-old as you are now. Hell, even the state thought me better off with strangers. Here I kneel, right where you breathed your last whiskey-scented breath. Why here, Mom? Forgiveness? Redemption? I can't redeem you--that certainly isn't my area of expertise. Forgiveness would take a bit more of a man than I've grown to be. So, I've lit a candle. That's what we do when people die. Sometime after we leave, the candle burns out. The blessing for us is we don't have to stay and watch. Look at all the lonely people, Mom. Where do they all come from? Where do they all belong? I guess the same place I do, that's why we're here.
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