Mum says everything must go

and is right of course

 

The shed is black

with more layers of creosote

than even dad could know or count.

It was his father's before him

Such a job to move it here

 

I walk in.

I hold my breath.

How dare I?

How dare I invade and destroy this sanctum?

 

This is where Grandad worked

on that beautiful children's chair

my own grandchildren now sit and chirp in

so happily.

This is where he hid himself and his hurt

when Uncle Louis' Spitfire

went into the Channel.

This is where a little boy

was sent to fetch I can’t remember what

and gazed around

wide-eyed

and awestruck

 

There is that hook he used to hang string on.

I pick up his stupid hat.

Honestly

how could he wear a thing like that?

I move through this crumbling, beautiful world

touching relics whose life fades with every breath,

the glow is leaving with every step,

the cold is invading

 

His gloves. His gardening gloves.

Oh God.

I can't touch them

but Mum mustn't see them

 

Why did he keep so many bamboo canes?

He never used that many

But I'm just the same

In so many ways

I'm just the same

 

The job is done

and a theatre of dreams

is in eleven black bags.

The shed is as broken as our hearts

 

I walk back in

and smell it one more time

with eyes closed

I walk out with tears running down my cheeks.

 

I cannot face her like this and must hide.

 

The garage will do.

 

Or will it?

 

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My father died of pancreatic cancer. I hadn't intended to post this but have been moved to by reading Cynthia's (much better) poem about her mother's battle with the same disease.