After the Prom

Time moves erratically. At points so swift, we lose our way in the moment, a ephemeral blur. At others, it eddies and curls, babbling and rippling, casting echoes across a lifetime.

That night after the prom, son, you brought your date, Lucy, into our diner—your faces glowed. Together you created a sense of wonder, hope, happiness. Time bent back, stilled around an old, forgettable counter.

The smell of her corsage still visits me at the park bench in spring. All a brief moment, I guess you could say. Like granite, it stands prominent in the stream of my life.


(100 words)

Picture is copyright by the Estate of Norman Rockwell. Linked via James Vaughn.



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