A collector of "Stuff"

He was a collector of stuff, wasn’t he? I know look at all of this. She wiped tears from her face as she held onto his hairbrush, was it wrong to touch his things? She held one of his shirts smelling his scent not caring anymore if the tears fell in buckets. He put on one of his favorite hats and didn’t take it off for a long time., it went in the keeper box. They sat together on the floor going through picture albums seeing him in his youth when their life was just beginning. Shots at the beach and favorite fishing holes, his rods standing in the corner next to his tackle box that showed the scars of so many years of use. Wish we had gone more. Going through the drawers and finding secrets of his life that they felt they shouldn’t be seeing because they were his secrets not theirs. An old folding knife, two ace of spades playing cards, why two? A selection of keys that went to who knows what? Assorted tools and boxes of picture hooks, just one mans stuff. They went through his clothes and remembered he wasn’t much of a fashion type guy just a lot of t-shirts, jeans and a couple of worn leather jackets. He loved to ride. The old Harley was in the shed and the boy said they would sell it. His old pick up truck was well kept but to many memories so it to would be sold. He was a simple man with his own story like all of us have. He was a good man who kept to himself but always there when called on. Where is he now? Is he looking down at them, his children crying for him, his whole life in front of them with more to be found as they sort it all out on a cloudy October day. He was looking down at them he will always be watching them and waiting with an endless smile upon his face.

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