‘You can keep all the things that belonged to your parents’ I say. ‘It doesn’t bring them back.’ So I stand, in my father’s tool shed (circa 1969) and breathe in that dry old wood smell – how is it that no matter the temperature it’s always fine in here? My hand is curled around the handle of the enameled iron pot used to cook corn at corn roasts over the decades. I really do need this..for something. I take it in the house and wash the soot off 10 months ago

‘Sold’ the sign reads in front of my childhood home. ‘Childhood’ being a flexible term – more than childhood has been spent here.
‘How hard’ remarked a friend when I returned to the house, between apartments. ‘All the memories.’
Well, yes…every now and again my boy-Father wanders into my bedroom to stand at the window. He’s lain in that quiet, bird-song strewn cemetery since ‘71; but I watch as he ties his tie, and looks out at the yard and garden. 11 months ago