The wind awoke as Dad gingerly carried the punk, its firey tip enhancing his coppery hair.
“Light’er up,” we cried.
Dad squatted to light the fuse while the breeze caressed and teased his graying sideburns and the low side-part above his ear.
“Come on wind,” we urged.
The wind billowed—speeding the flame along—to ignite the lift-charge of the Grand-Finale-Rocket.
Against a starburst backdrop, a glorious gust disengaged the flap of Dad's hair, sealed into submission by a wad of pomade, and we broke out in song, “It’s a Grand Old Flag…” finally celebrating the release of the combover.
By Lisa H. Owens
Just 100 Words
100-Word Stories - June 2023 Photo Prompt
Keep it simple, Stupid!
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