Sheila'��s Dad

I'm here, "The old fella whispers." And I feel a butterfly light
touch against my skin. "God," how long is it since I was in his
shed? Oh my, His cobwebbed festooned hat, is still hanging
on the wall

Decaying boots lie expectant by the door; I'll have to get rid of
them, perhaps next time. The spade, the one that was always
too heavy for me, made him smile when I tried to lift it. And the
hoe tumbled by his chair

Through the handkerchief panes I glimpse the memory, hear
the echo of his footsteps. "My Dad," taking one last stroll around
his garden. While everything around me speaks of how much
he loved it. And of course me.

R