Monday, October 01, 2012

Just an Old Shed.

He used the old dory for storing the driftwood he picked up from the shore, to dry it out and later use in the stove.

The land behind he grew the potatoes on.

He was religious in the mowing of the grass, every week without fail, in the gentler months.

He'd allow himself to look at the old shed then. And think to himself it looked so orderly, so deeply and satisfyingly red against the green.

Today he thought to open up the shed. Give it an airing. Make sure the tools hadn't gotten rusty and all the many implements of boat-building were still in their places.

No, maybe tomorrow. He wasn't ready. Not quite yet. His heart was still too tender. Those old rafters would be too welcoming.

It had been six months. After their forty-four years and seven months and three weeks and one day together.

His whole world had broken apart the day Ben the dory maker had died.

His beloved. His everything.


  1. You have a wonderful way with words. I am sure you could write a piece about a blade of grass or a grain of sand!

  2. Oooh yes! Please tell us about their meeting and time together, WWW......

  3. You're challenging me to use my imagination here and I like that.

  4. Yes, I like. You do this so well.

    Having read back over the last three entries I have no reason to change the above comment.
    True story or not, it's a common lament, heard from many foolish women - me included.

  5. A fine twist to the story. Need more stories like this in these times of hate and prejudice.

  6. It's hard when the loss has to remain unspoken.

  7. Thank you all for your kind words, without you and feedback I'd be working in the dark.



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