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Literature Text

When I was five years old, my mother went to visit her parents in Dijon.


She never came home.



_____________________________________________________

I started working at five years old. Fishing off of the sunny docks in Erbalunga. Desperately trying to sell everything I caught so that I could feed three people waiting at home. I was doing the work that grown men were doing. That my father should have been doing.

I would sit there, patiently waiting. I imagined dropping the hook deep into the water, so deep that something giant and mysterious would take hold of the lure and pull down, down, down, pull me down with it, into some imaginary place where I could play and swim and do things that kids did. Somewhere where I didn't have to cook or fish or trick tourists into paying too much for some shell that I had found. Somewhere where my father didn't sleep all day, numbed by anguish and sorrow. I imagined it. The sun still touched my face and the wind still blue and I followed the jellyfish who didn't care if my knees were too dirty and my eyes were dark around the rims.

I imagined my mother there. Clear and luminescent like the jellyfish, smiling and singing and laughing. Floating carelessly and swaying along with the wind-like movement of the water. Her hair the colour of the moon, her eyes always loving and without constant sadness. This thought always rocked me to sleep in the same manner that she used to. Slowly, as slowly as a skiff rhythmically is borne onwards through the sea on the calmest night.

I used to wonder when she was coming back.


I soon stopped wondering when and knew that she wouldn't.

And at five years old, the only thing that I could do was imagine.

__________________________________________________


Inevitable force.


Took my mother and my childhood. Took my father's happiness.


The same force rocked me to sleep and I let it because I knew that nothing else would.
Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. PLEASE DO SO. PLEASE.

This is part of a series of flash fictions in case you were wondering. 

Erbalunga is in Corsica, France. Dijon is in France as well. 
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