The Little Poem In Prose

Inspired by Fred Moramarco's three sentence poem.

The end of the best day of my entire twelve years of existence was hastily coming to an end as I slowly walked arm in arm with the figure that possessed the exact same face I had seen in countless photos, with the same name that had been passed along in endless whispers, and with the same lighthearted voice that I only heard twice a year. Only when the familiar face of my mother came into view, did I let go of the long slim arm that had guided me through the streets of my forgotten past. I begged and pleaded with her to let me stay, to let me live the life I had constructed many times in both my dreams and fantasies. I once again tightly latched on to his arm and looked up at the stranger I already loved more than anyone, expecting his approval, but all I saw was the movement of his head objecting as he escaped my grasp and shattered my world.