“Do you think it’s far?” Henry asked as he pushed a soot stained finger through a hole in his coat, pushing the woollen threads wider apart.
Garth glanced up from licking the paper of his cigarette. “What’s far?”
“Home,” Henry replied. He watched the distant point where the sea kissed the sky, sometimes thinking he could see the far shores in the glistening water. Other times it seemed the water crept on in an endless march.
“Don’t know. Over a hundred and fifty miles? Sounds about far enough, anyhow.” Garth went back to his cigarette, his stubbed fingers rolling it into a small tube.
Henry tried to think back to his home across the waves. A small apartment where the afternoon sun pooled in spots on the hardwood floors. The vinyl still on the player that would be gathering dust in its scratched grooves. The small flower he kept on the windowsill that would now be drooping from thirst. It was little to think about. Meagre thoughts of a simple home slowly becoming faded memory.
A wave crashed on the shoreline and its white froth crept up to Henry’s boots, close enough that he had to pull his rifle out of the way.
Thanks Sue for another great photo this week! Part of this week’s #writephoto, an awesome weekly prompt that had me feeling quite reflective this time around.