Written 26th September, 2026 submitted to Pick-A-Title, Vol 59 Poetry Contest sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Dad made the low table. one of the things his hands have given the house. Now it holds her photograph, the small lamp, and cyclamens lifting their pink faces through lace-filtered light. Each morning, he says Good morning, then switches on the lamp. He takes the walker into the garden each day, selecting what is flowering among her favourites and brings them back in his careful hands to place beside her frame. The curtains soften the afternoon to green. On the table he made, fresh stems lean close to her face in the photograph. At night, he says Goodnight. He brushes her face before turning off the lamp. Beyond the lace, one late flower holds its colour in the fading sun.
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