My Mother’s Dreams

The young black boy sat next to me.  10 years old maybe.  I loved him and he loved me.  He gave me a quarter.  I didn’t know why, but I thought it was sweet. A mic was passed around the room.  We were to tell each other what we did in our lives.  Our lives mattered.  Our lives mattered.

Copyright Suzanne Norton 2017

About Suzanne

I write poetry, flash fiction, quotes and personal essays. Words flow forth like a river that cannot be dammed. Writing is my soul.
This entry was posted in Connection, Connections, Dreams, Short Story, Story, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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