bloody-magpies

every summer, for as long as I can remember, father would bring mother fresh-picked flowers - red tulips were her favorite - to signify him being home from the war. mother cooked her famous mashed potatoes and barbeque chicken, with side salad, letting them tulips freshen up the room; father would pick up his guitar and tell stories through song about his adventures. what felt like only minutes later, father would gather his bags after several weeks, walk on over to me and mother, kissing me on my cheek softly; take care of her, son - he would say, with a bittersweet smile. every summer was the same. every summer except the last. from