PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
‘I’ve told you before, only one lamp. We don’t have oil for two,’ says Mumma.
Her eyes are puffy from sewing, hands blotched purple and red because her blood doesn’t move right, so Nana Gert says.
I turn down the wick, blow out the flame, sniff the smoke until it’s gone. I want to ask when Dadda will be home with warm pelts, dried meat, fresh flour and a sugar cane with a red and white twist.
Instead I listen to the wind tugging the door, feel the warm air stolen from my face.