As a child he swung me over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. He was tall and strong, like the oak tree in the garden, his arms like branches that offered love and protection. I listened to his wisdom and strived to live up to his standards and expectations.
Bit by bit I watched him droop as the life in him burnt out like the oak we were removing from the garden. Mum leaving started it but when I was raped his shoulders became incapable of taking the weight of any potatoes. He hadn’t protected and he hated himself.
Thanks to Rochelle’s prompt for Friday Fictioneers and who also supplied this weeks photo.