Dad’s flower boxes

I think I’ll plant flowers this year. It’s an unusually warm time right now up here in the mountains. Even though my studio sits next to a stream that runs year ’round with snowmelt from Pikes Peak, I can sit in the sun today in a tee shirt … and it feels good.

I haven’t had flowers on the deck across the stream for two years. My dad’s flower boxes still sit in an awkward stack in the corner of the deck where he left them. I’ve looked at them since he’s been gone and there was always some kind of odd comfort in that lonely picture, reminding me how big the hole is that he left in my heart … and that sadness feels wonderfully awful.

Today would be the kind of day he would have loved; outside preparing the soil in his boxes for the bouquet he would select every year. I remember how he’d tell me about his selection and how these would be the finest flower boxes ever…

Why didn’t I take more pictures? I should have interviewed him and produced a beautiful tribute documentary with nostalgic soundtracks, the wash of the stream and his unforgettable voice and that smile. I was busy…I guess. There would always be time…

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