Arriving at the Rhône -Alpes, Monica and little Max settled into their ski chalet.
She said, “We need to do something first before we start the day.” Max didn’t mind.. he was eager to explore, anyway.
They trudged away from the chalet until they reached an outpost. Monica leaned through its open window and murmured for several minutes.
“Why are you talking to the hats, mum?” She simply smiled and turned back the way they’d come.
When he was old enough, she would tell him about his brave dad who died in the Germanwings plane crash with 149 others.
150 hats – one for each soul.

©Vivian Zems

Friday Fiction Fictioneers with Rochelle Wiseoff 

Image by Björn