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