Alone

Beatrice was propped up on hospital

pillows. She was anxious, fiddling with

her freshly bandaged arm. She sprung

at me for information. I assured her that

Uncle would be fine. I have been so

worried. Poor Father alone all night

on that horrible mountain. It must have

been unspeakable. The colour had fled

from Beatrice’s face. She was re-living

her Father’s horror. I said something

inane about this being the holiday from

hell, but Beatrice wasn’t listening.

Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist

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