The fire truck gathered dust under the trees in the back of the yard.
Rust was creeping over it like ivy.
These trucks were made to resist, so I’d like to think that with a little coaxing, someone could bring it to life and speed it to a fire so it could do its duty.
But nobody was coming today and even the town of Paris was no longer on the map.
You would have to dig deeper in history because everything was demolished in the ‘quake of 76 and its inhabitants were spread out in the world with only their memories intact.
It just appeared one day.
I can’t even remember when.
I woke in the morning to take a stroll around the ranch and found it there. Under the trees.
The children used to play around it. Whooping and imitating the sirens and although the red flashing light had ceased working, together with everything else, they just imagined it, as children do.
The children left home a long time ago and I take solace from visits to the cemetery to pay respect to my beloved wife.
So now it’s only me and the Paris Fire Truck that remain.
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It’s a long time since I wrote anything. I couldn’t resist this picture from this weeks Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks for the inspiration Donna.