Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

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I'm a depository for memories.
My father always writes me rambling recollections of his childhood.

Virginia City, 1953. We shoplifted butter cookies from the corner store. A hand grabbed our shoulders on the way out the double doors, we were so close to the point of sprint.

Mother didn't punish us formally. When the shopkeeper called her up, we heard him say her boys had been found taking things that didn't belong to them. Food items, the shopkeeper said, they took food items, cookies. The exchange went no further, and we sat on milk crates behind a beige curtain until we heard the chimes of the door and the strong steps of our mother.

You're on your way, the shopkeeper said.

The walk home was quiet. We were happy, it was another day, albeit with unusual excitement.
We did not expect punishment, we were free spirited! When mother said it it sounded wonderful. We were free spirited!

She had us sit on the front porch. She took off her coat and her hat and came outside. Don't I feed you enough, she asked.

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