At The Lake, by Bobby Warner

(F.F.F. Website Story)

I come often and sit on the wooden bench beside the lake and gaze out over the water, which is often disturbed by a persistent breeze.

Several children drowned here in the lake twenty years ago, and I often see what might be tiny hands in the water, and hear small, childlike voices.

Long past child-bearing age, I have always wanted children. That never could be. Perhaps–God grant this!–I might one day see those lost children, and even converse with them and tell them how much they are still loved.

I could ask for no more than this.


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