Intent

Another Sunday night has arrived. The kids are tucked in, but are not quite ready to surrender to sleep. Currently, strains of Jingle Bells are drifting down the stairs. They aren’t fighting, so neither will I.
Tim and I have been working at the old house again. Some of it is easy. I don’t mind pulling staples and tackboard. If anything that job is a relief.
It’s the sorting that kills me. Knowing my father hates to part with anything, it’s hard to throw away a stack of letters, even though they have both moved on and are married to other, a cracked picture that used to hang in the hall. Those things can be hard, butaren’t impossible.
The pieces that hurt are those that were meant to be used and have simply rotted away.
I look at those broken toys and wonder how much overtime he has put in to cover the cost of an item he meant to use with his family, but never got around to.
It’s an old story and a familiar one to some, but how I hate sifting through the pieces of the past