The clock in Trellech announced his daily passage. At seven-thirty he traveled into town, his feet dragging him forward, his pack dwarfing his tiny frame. Every afternoon at precisely two-thirty, lighter steps whisked him home.
Time slipped into years. As he grew into his backpack, it was replaced by a one larger and heavier than the last. His shoulders bent beneath the staggering weight, but he endured his regimen and never faltered.
His stamina increased, his burden kept pace, and I marveled at his quiet suffering.
One fateful day he stopped, dropped his albatross, and dared to fly free.
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Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer