It was moving day. I sat on our porch for the last time, drumming Paul McCartney’s “Freedom” over and over onto the faded grey wood.
When had everything turned this ugly shade of grey? This question choked me while I looked around the only yard I’d ever known.
There’s the tree I’d climbed every morning to stand taller than the sun for a moment longer than anyone else. I rubbed the scar on my thigh that’s now my daily reminder to take things slower, to calculate my steps accurately.
I refuse to cry over this! How blind we’d been to believe we were safe from the snares of the hidden bureaucracies of this world. To think my poor father worked his way into the grave so Ma and I wouldn’t end up with nothing. I miss him.
Where’s this freedom they preach about? Buried in a tin can, I suppose.
Flash Fiction Prompt — May 2011
In 150 words or less:
“Where did our freedom go?”