a postcard story prompted by RoseAnne Mussar

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Never Too Late

a postcard story prompted by RoseAnne Mussar

I used to bring you all my broken things: rusted wind-up birds and silent music boxes, frozen clocks and slowing watches.

"Is it too late to fix it?" I'd ask.

"It's never too late," you'd tell me, and your careful hands would make the birds sing again, and the boxes chime again, and the clocks and watches keep their time.

As I grew older, I would bring you my broken trusts and shattered hopes, my cracked dreams and dented loves. "Is it too late?" I'd ask, and you'd smile and say, "It's never too late," and make them whole again.

When you grew old and your parts began to wear out and break down, I did not know where to bring you.

"Tell me how to fix this," I said at your bedside. "Without you, none of this matters."

"It's never too late," you told me.

"To fix it?" I asked.

"No," you answered, looking around at all the chimes you'd taught to sing and the clocks whose hands you’d steadied and the toys you’d brought back to life. "To make the time we have matter."


Short story written by Peter Chiykowski, prompted by RoseAnne Mussar

Story prompt taken from a photo by Ahmad Ossayli

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