Mama cut down the blackberry tree and let Daddy’s field go fallow.
“Always hated that thing,” she said. And it was true those berries weren’t much good for anything ‘cept getting fat robins drunk.
“Daddy put it in,” I said. But I knew it was a mistake.
She snorted. “Tree never did nothing worth preserving.”
She was right. The sweet ones always fell apart and stained my fingers red.
“Don’t eat them off the ground,” Mama always said. But those were sweetest.
It was all that was left of him.
Gone Fool, she called him. But he was just gone.
Another edition of the fabulous Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the generous Rochelle. To view more 100-word takes on the photo prompt, or to enter your own, click on the blue frog button.