Anchors
By Allen Forrest
Word count: 276
There is an old shack at the back of the property,
it is divided in two sections,
one side for a tool shop,
the other for a greenhouse.
And they were here.
The anchors.
They shared a world together,
for years,
working on their projects,
the garden,
building things,
with the tools,
mowing the lawn,
pulling the weeds.
Picking the fruit,
apples, pears, peaches.
They were happy here,
together.
This was their world.
It was a nice world.
They did pretty much whatever they wanted.
They had earned it,
their retirement.
Now they are gone,
the anchors.
The anchors in my life.
I open the greenhouse,
which on a sunny day,
even in the dead of winter,
is so much warmer than the outside,
inviting you to step inside,
and get out of the cold.
I look at all the old things,
garden gloves with holes in them,
red clay flower pots and folded rags,
tools for trimming,
and clipping,
and boxes full of plant food,
even a decorative porcelain figurine,
one that used to be in the house,
but was brought out to dress up the greenhouse.
And among all these things I realize,
she was here.
She worked in here on many an afternoon.
Potting and planting,
dreaming and enjoying her little world.
And next door, he was here,
running his power tools,
or hammering something held in a vise.
Fixing, building, making,
he was here.
She was here.
Anchors.
The anchors of my life.
They are gone.
I must be my own anchor now.
And it is so hard.
Still I must try,
as they tried.
As they lived,
and,
as they died.
(Image above: renaissance_renewed_the_art_shop_greenhouse_ink_watercolor)
