Two years in March my father passed away. I went into his shop recently to have another look around. We are selling my dad’s house soon and I still have many treasures hidden in nooks and crannies of his basement. As I dug around and found even more boxes of books and such things, I wondered if my kids will leave bits of their lives scattered underground.
Heading back to my dad’s shop is drawing me in two directions. It is not an easy place to be in, but it is not a bad place either. That day was about just being present in the space that my father and I spent so much time in. I came in with my husband and took more boxes away. I felt the pull then of his presence, my dad that is.
I came back on my own and sat amongst the wood dust. I let it all out and it was very cleansing. What catches me the most when I am in his work shop are the little notes that still sit on his work bench and are tacked onto the wall. It is his distinctive handwriting that brings him back to me.
Years ago I took his picture while we were working on a salvaged wood frame. It is a film print and badly scanned, but it serves its purpose here. I miss him terribly, especially when I think how my kids are missing out. He was ecstatic to become a grandpa and my kids loved him so much.
Part two of my train of thought will have to wait.
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