Each bottle, a story. Each bottle, placed there over the last fifteen years. Each bottle, creating a dancing light in the setting sun. Each bottle, a subtle reminder to the lives that were lost.
I don’t remember who started it, but the first one was for Billy Edison. He was only twenty-two. Leukemia. The youngest was little Jessica. Two months old. Car accident. The oldest, Harry Bragg, a WWII vet who died in his own bed at the age of 91.
Each bottle is a reminder of the lives of our friends and close ones who are gone from us way too soon. Each bottle nothing more and nothing less than a memorial to them.
Tonight, they added one more.
Mine.
Filed under: Micro Fiction Tagged: Friday Fictioneers
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