by Smitty
Swings the heavy door shut, turns the key a final time.
Mother’s illness has been a second womb. The lengthy second gestation is done. She’d been ancient; he, merely old, wife taken by cancer decades ago, only son taken by war, siblings estranged.
Hand lets go of the brass key. He feels liberated. Weight dropping off.
There’s a brew pub on the corner. His tongue almost jumps out of his mouth at the thought of the sweet ale washing away the bitter pain of emotion with the crisp bitterness of hops.
He hasn’t had a beer in what? Decades.
Yes.
via Darleen