Atticus sat in the hallway, the one o’clock hour approaching as he looked at the photos hanging on the ivory colored wall, which his mother had painted the summer before she had May.
A picture started at him the most of all the many that hung around the house, his mother and father crooned over the little bundle wrapped up in their arms, his mother’s eyes tired and father’s proud. They stared down at a baby, their young faces still unaware of the months they would spend up with that particular bundle during the course of many nights.
Yet they stared down with adoration at a mere hour old Atticus.
His throat tightened at their joyful expressions.
What happened?
He asked silently.
YOU ARE READING
Atticus and Indi.
SpiritualIndi is an atheist, vegetarian ; who orders chocolate milk from a juice bar every Wednesday. Four minutes later, she sits in a confessional sipping her milk that has been placed into a juice cup and talks of her life. On the other side of the scree...
