Photo by Kira auf der Heide via Unsplash

For the last year I had been procrastinating coming home despite knowing that he was unwell, and now I have finally come to receive his urn.

As I clean house, I sit down at the desk recalling all his hours hunched over, writing, inspiring, birthing the writer in me.

Picking up his dip pen, I fill page after page with memories, tears, apologies, the ink flowing like ablution.

In response to Week 88 of the Three Line Tales challenge

3 thoughts on “The Scrivener’s Daughter

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