At the window in Connemara
I see seven things my father loved:
a brand new sunrise in a rainy sky
ponies in a grassy pasture
trees bending in wind
a white shed
heavy machinery (a red backhoe)
a wood plank corral
his granddaughter, still asleep
me, reflected
8 things
Beautiful. My father died in December. I see things he loved and stand still, in awe that they remain when he is gone.
It’s funny how that is, and how things keep turning up when you’re not expecting htem. I’m sorry for your loss, Kelly. My condolences.