You see that white house across the street with the slender green tree , infront , that’s my friend Joyce’s . The house was formerly brick-red in colour, just like our apartment.
I had met Joyce in a bus , funny, isn’t it that we should be oblivious strangers in the same neighbourhood , only to befriend in a bus? She was knitting a cap , for a charity at our community library, the first time we had met . I was impressed with her knitting and her gentle heart . We became friends , waiting at the same bus stop , chatting all the way through , till de-boarding .
Joyce would invite me over for tea . She had showed me pictures of her deceased husband Roger and her two lovely daughters who lived in far away states. She lived alone with her cat Una . She would recount stories from her past when “writing was vital as breathing “ and how“folk music was the language of her soul “. She was 87 , my dear friend Joyce. The house has been painted white now , her green tree a testimony to continuation of life.
This story was written for FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER- 2017 WEEK #20. where participants have to write a flash fiction piece under 200 words, inspired by the photo prompt for the given week.