So just a tiny bit of back story, this was written from real life bits. Therefore this piece has real meaning, and it speaks for itself. So please share your thoughts. I hope you enjoy this.
Bookshelves
Softly falling rain drips outside. Clouds chase over the moon playing with light. It all begins
and ends with bookshelves. I eye them from across the room.
They were built many years ago. My dad and I spent long hours,
the first summer I lived with him, in the labor of building them. They aren't
fancy store bought book shelves, but they are priceless.
That bond of shared memories, of time well spent, is where
their value lies. Lessons learned, moments shared, a bond stronger than most,
is what they represent.
My own children have similar experiences with their grandpa,
and with me. I left my father's funeral today with a heavy heart, but here in
the dark seeing the solid outline of something in which he put so much of
himself, I am comforted by the reminder of such sweet memories.
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