The number of times I've rewritten this story to get it 'right', to write it as it wants to be. It will be edited by my colleagues shortly and then I'll ebook as a WRiter's Choice Shorts
SING A SONG
He’s been visiting the home for just over a month, nearly six weeks if he counted aright, but he still couldn’t find a way to reach her. Always the lost one, the left one, the non-musical, non-academic son. He'd jibbed like one of his awkward horses and bolted. First to America and then England, now home to New Zealand because his mother was dying and he ought to see her.
He's made some inane comment about lack of city cultural...er...musical amenities in this very rural place and now she's laughing at him.
"Gerri dear, living in the country does not mean I live in a cultural desert. Really my son, what an idea!" His mother raised both her thin voice and her frail hands in mock horror.