Stories need a roof over their heads too
Backtracking to the reason I started writing, I inadvertently dig up a painful piece of memory.
It was three years ago, my dad had been ill for a while, his condition seemingly not changing by much. He was soldiering stoically on. We all sort of believed things would work out all right.
I was dreaming again. An uncomfortable dream, yes. The kind where you want to shuffle your feet, only it feels like they’re leaden. You try to speak, but someone has sewn your mouth shut with invisible thread. I hate dreams like this. They turn me into a simple passenger.
Ah, but you will likely want to know what it was about.