“It’s a wreath, sweetie,” Harriet said to her daughter, who had asked what the large, decorative ring on the door was.
“What’s it for?” Susan asked.
“They’re mostly for decoration. Pretty, isn’t it?” Susan suddenly darted up to the door and started touching the wreath. “Sweetie, come back here,” Harriet called out.
“Mommy, there are little cotton fluff balls all over this wreath,” Susan shouted back.
Harriet ran up the walk and grabbed Susan’s hand. “You can look, but don’t touch, sweetie.” She started to pull her back toward the street when the large door opened.
A girl a few years older than Susan, eyes red and slightly puffy, stood still for a few seconds. “Did you know my daddy?” she asked. “He died last week.”
“I’m so sorry,” Harriet said. “We were just admiring your wreath.”
“Someone brought it to his funeral yesterday and I thought it was pretty, so we put it on our door,” the girl explained. “It reminds me of my daddy. He was soft and fluffy, too.”
Written for this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers from Priceless Joy. Picture credit: Goroyboy.