Another prose poem;
PERSPECTIVE
We went back after the funeral to sort out his things.
Mam couldn't face the fact of his death. His clothes went into
binbags for the charity shop but those that he wore on the day
were taken down to the tip.We packed away the tools
he'd been using, the chisels, saws and planes he once taught me
to use.They were his living, but his life was music, Italian tenors
his passion, now at last mine too.I found the dictionary of music
I'd bought for his birthday, pleased that I'd got it right for once and
behind it another copy that he already had and never mentioned.
In a paperback copy of 'Candide' a box Brownie snap of his
younger self proudly holding his first born, showing me off for
the first time. He'd saved newspaper cuttings of my minor
achievments, prizes won, (never firsts), school reports, photos
from child to soldier. In a torn envelope held with an
elastic band were my letters from abroad written unaware of
his fears for my safety. We took everything home to sort out later
but it's all still in the loft with the other once precious debris.
Our lives moved in parallel, sometimes converging but
never quite touching until we reached the vanishing point.
