Clint was fifteen when an accident killed our father. I can still remember the look on my mother’s face as she tried to tell us that he wouldn’t be coming home for dinner. The fried chicken and mashed potatoes she’d already made sat on the table for nearly two days before she let us clear it to the trash. It had been my father’s favorite. She never made it after that, even though it had been my favorite too.
Check out the rest of this coming of age short story at https://underwoodpress.com/ruescribe/the-small-literature/