The Boy That Was and Is - Flash Fiction by Michael James O’Neill

 

The Boy That Was and Is                                                                            

Flash Fiction by

Michael James O’Neill

 

A beautiful Sunday in the park.

I watch my ten-year-old running

Round and round a majestic pine.

He’s our only child.

 

I thought back to a Sunday long ago

When I was ten years old.

Leaves were starting to turn.

One of the last warm days of September

Just before the leaves fall.

And the weather soon turns raw

With frosts and sharp winds.

 

Dad, Mom, and I had an outing.

A picnic in a groomed park

With canopied picnic tables

Next to fenced-off dense woods.

Like my son I was an only child

Blessed with parental love

A doting mother and a caring father

For seven wonderful years.

Then the wonder stopped.

My fussy brother arrived.

Later my cry baby sister appeared.

I lost my place.

 

My dad and I found a picnic table.

Mom laid out a delicious spread.

Sandwiches, cheese, juices, hot tea.

My brother whined and stomped.

My baby sister started howling.

Mom and dad were busy.

Won’t someone notice me?

I wandered off towards the fence.

Through a gap, I got into the woods.

I walked for ten minutes at least.

There was no path, just obstacles.

I looked back, no picnic table.

I turned around, nowhere to go.

I kicked at the forest floor.

A perfect pinecone appeared.

I put it in my pocket.

Where was I? I panicked. Lost.

I didn’t cry, I held back the tears.

Scared, I yelled, Help.

Nothing happened.

I screamed, HELP.

I heard dead branches cracking.

Someone was crashing my way fast.

Mark, where are you?

Are you okay, son?

My Dad looked scared too.

Faking, I said, I’m okay.

A fledgling stoic I was.

Dad took my hand.

We walked back without a word.

I was ashamed to speak.

I had seen the look on Dad’s face.

He was a good old dad.

I never asked for help again.

I never had to.

 

 

I kept that pinecone for years.

A reminder of the day I grew up.

It got lost in some move.

Lost like other things and people.

People forgotten or left behind

To live their own or others’ lives.

I do miss Dad and that pine cone.

Michael James O’Neill: Canadian expat, McGill postgraduate, Bolivian resident, career educator, author of textbooks, aspiring writer of fiction.