“Tell me son when I grow old will you buy me a house of gold”
That’s how it will start….this letter and task to keep his mind and hands busy; to stop him from trying to clutch on to what he lost when the Spring buds got overshadowed by sunflowers.
I continue… more detail as thick as oil to get his tear rusted clogs turning again.
that glistens in summer rain, like diamonds so I sparkle again; no use of actual diamonds or glitter from your sisters craft box… use something from your box.
His box of paper bound, sepia photographs, bottle tops and buttons. I know nothing of his shines like his sisters, isn’t as bright and nothing of his could stand a fight against his siblings stash. She is a magpie and he is an owl, wise beyond his years and still trying to grow in to his ears.
all that glitters isn’t gold and vis versa.
I’ll give him til summers end
You have til that last sunrise of summer.. the new beginning when September puts your laughter in the playground instead of home.
I’ll ask this when things are starting to look shifty, unstable before the wobble and when games no longer hold interest on rainy days like Boggle.
I’m still not sure how to finish….