The last thing I could do for my father was to place the old tweed cap on his head as his body was wheeled out of the house. Once the cap had sat snug on his head, but now it fell down over his nose. Not that it mattered now. The ravage of cancer had shed his body away to nothing. ‘He can’t go without his hat,’ I said.
Continue reading “My Father’s Hats”Tag: grief
Jean of Buraneer
I’m sitting on a bench at Buraneer Point. Far below me is the blue ribbon of the Port Hacking River.
Continue reading “Jean of Buraneer”About a dog
I have come late to dog ownership. For me, it’s always been about the cat.
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