I go with the boat-maker’s milk.
He’s a strange one. ‘I’m not a boat maker, I’m an artisan,’ he says, making me repeat the word until I say it right. The first time he sits me down making me feel how smooth they are, how she balances. ‘Love makes all the difference. I don’t make them, I create them, like Our Father created us, with love’ he goes on, and I look around glad that nobody else was around to hear his crazy.
People come by to look and admire, but not many buy. He don’t care.
Today he looks sad. ‘What happened?’ I asks.
‘One of my babies is out exploring the seas.’
Selling boat make him sad. He strange.
In response to Bikurgurl’s photo prompt for her 25th 100 Word Wednesday challenge
Congratulations gurl – you’ve touched silver ♥