Where Is My Home?

Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic was a grumpy old man, which was understandable considering he had such an unfortunate name to write on all his bills. A Wednesday night, bitterly snowing, he rushed walking home. In such weather the missus would worry herself away by the front door, and he hated to upset her when he dilly-dattled on his way home.  

“Hey Mister!” Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic paused and looked around. A few feet behind him, perhaps a yard more like, stood a rather desolate looking child. Dressed in stitched together old pillow cases the bright-eyed child would have broken a lesser man’s heart right then and there.

“What do you want?” Called Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic to the young boy. 

“I’m looking for my home.” The boy answered simply.

“Why are you following me then?”

“Do you know where my home is?” The boy asked.

“Why would I know where that is?” Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic turned to leave, paused, and faced the child once more. “If you’re looking for someone to pickpocket –”

“So do you know where it is?”

Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic huffed. “No. Now go away.” With that he turned fully and trudged on.

“But I have nowhere to go. I don’t know where my home is,” Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic heard the boy crunching through the snow, following. He looked over his shoulder at the trailing boy.

“Don’t you know where the police station is?”

“Yes,” the boy replied. “But I don’t want to go there. I want to go home.”

“Can’t help you then kid,” Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic tightened his coat. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to say where my home is.” Mr. Rickardson-Ticklpic doubled his pace in the hopes of out-running the small child. “Hey Mister!” The boy called, stumbling but carrying right on.

“What?” 

“Do you have a home?” “Yes,” “Is it warm?” “Yes,” “Is there food?” “Yes,” “Is there a family?”

“Yes, the missus.”

“Wow… That must be nice. I can’t remember my home. I wonder if I had a missus…”

Mr. Rickardson-ticklpic stopped walking and sighed. “Alright kid, come on.” He reached out to grasp the young boy’s ungloved hand; leading him, at a much slower pace, home. 

 

*Note: Hi Followers! I’m back from my trip; I ate too much and saw a-lot (but really I just ate too much). The mountains are beautiful!    

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