Photo credit: Matteo Paciotti
My near-father’s tools lay where he left them, waiting, as though he might return any minute. I caress them gingerly, not daring to use them, to move them from their sacred space.
With calloused hand, my husband grabs a hammer, as though it is his, as though it always has been.
“There’s work to do,” he says, so like his father that I have to hug him until he cries.
Written for this week’s Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for hosting! See below for the original photo prompt.
Photo © Ashim D’Silva