Softening of the heart.

Pondering through the brambles.

When my father died, I inherited his seed collection, each packed of seeds carefully labelled in his hand. As the seeds were sown the packets that held my father’s words slowly disappeared.  In some vague attempt to hold him longer, I will push the empty seed packets into the soil containing the seeds.  Watching his penned last words run and disappear into a soggy paper mâché mess.I have sown all my inherited seeds; I  no longer trace my father’s handwritten words left on brown envelopes,  no longer hold the seeds he never sowed in the palm of my hand.

It’s been 20 years since I planted the seeds my dad left behind and today, I continue to prune and nurture the legacy held within the many brown envelopes that were labelled in my father’s hand.
However, if my dad could visit my garden today, I think he would be possibly…

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