I stand in an old wooden shed. My nose is assaulted by the smells I would smell whenever I visited my grandfather’s workshop as a child – engine oil, sawdust, wood, metal and hints of the sea. I’m surrounded by drills, both electric and hand-powered; boxes of tools for boat work, house work and wood work; canisters of oil for engines and unsticking things; wood shavings; two oil lamps; steel boat rigging; old Seagull engine parts; a solitary oar; and drawer upon drawer of nails, screws, fuses, light bulbs, grommets, washers, rope thimbles, nuts and things I can’t even name. There’s even a tiffin-like food container and some fishing hooks, new in their bag ¬†This shed personifies my grandfather. Cluttered but tidy, everything where it has to be. Birds sing blithely outside, Spring comes.¬†

Goodbye Grandpa