Photos
On Sunday, Danny McPhran sat cross-legged on the floor and looked at old photos piled in a cardboard box. There wasn’t anything else to do there in the basement now that the TV had stopped working. Mostly Danny missed spending Sunday with his friends.
Behind him he smelled his mom making soup. His stomach gurgled. He liked his mom’s soup, with tiny bits of meat and sometimes carrots or onions. He picked up another photo.
This photo showed his mom and dad riding horses. “Hey, Mom,” he said. “How come we never go horse riding?”
“It’s still not safe out there,” his mom said.
Danny dropped the photo back into the box and picked up another. This one showed his dad in a policeman’s uniform.
“Hey, Mom,” he said. “I miss Dad.”
“I miss him too,” his mom said.
Danny flipped the photo over. There was just a date on the back: 2006. “Hey, Mom,” he said. “Dad shot lots of them, didn’t he? The ones with teeth.”
“Yeah. Lots. He was a real hero,” his mom said. “Now wash your hands in the basin. Lunch is almost ready.”
Danny dropped the picture. He was ready to stand when he noticed another photo. He picked it up. It showed a picture of him as a baby. And sitting next to him was a young girl.
Danny flipped the photo over. The label on the back said, “Danny and Linda.”
“Hey Mom,” he said. “Who’s Linda?”
“Wash your hands,” his Mom said. “And I mean right now. I’ll tell you about your sister after you eat. Not before.”
Danny dropped the photo back into the box. He stood and went to wash his hands. Standing on tiptoes, he gazed at himself in the tiny mirror. “I had a sister,” he proudly whispered to his reflection. “And her name was Linda.”
