Where is my son?

By  Sam Simmons

“Where is my son? Where is my son?” the woman said. She had come to the end of the field, the edge of the cliff, and there was nowhere left to go but down. “He’s fallen off,” she said. “But I am right here mother,” a muffled voice said below her shoes. The woman stepped back. A small child’s hand pushed through the dirt. The woman pulled the tiny hand and a grown man followed it from the ground. “Next time tell me first,” the woman said, “I should know where you are. I am your mother after all.”