He looms hesitantly through the frosted glass, then opens the door. He stares out, eyes like a South Park character’s, then his face fumbles a smile.  I try not to overhug his rigid frailty.  Inside, the house smells of dust and laundry. 

Dad shuffles, hands shaking, to the kitchen.  Carrier bags full of not-put-away shopping encumber the floor.  On the table are several boxes from Meals on Wheels, some opened, some untouched.  I can barely hear his dry mumble as he asks if I want a cup of tea. 

                                                                  Dad’s shed
                                                             webs on a box of
                                                             high tensile bolts

Contemporary Haiku Online 9,3


About Rob

Amateur photographer and haijin.
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