When I close my eyes and listen, really listen to intricacies of the falling notes - I can see, I can smell warmish days walking the back hall of my father's office, bounding steps down a slight hollow/hallowed incline.

I can hear this winding story play in the courtyard outside, full of flowers. I can hold his hand in mine. I can travel through time to see it all again.

I had thirty years in my pocket to spend. I have no time left. Those remaining days wasted in fear, clawing for understanding that took so long to find. Captive.

But closing my eyes today, he is there. Sitting in his small office lined with shelves, pictures by the Impressionists crowding his wall, stained glass, blank spaces and his warm eyes. To hear his voice again I would give anything. I would give anything.

Last summer, I walked the streets of that small town. I met souls that he touched. I saw remnants of his gifts. He was still there in traces. I could almost hear him. It might, it should have been...so much more.

His home away from home as a child, then our home, for which he bartered - fertile farm land for warm memories and a chandelier - had now decayed in our absence.

We had fled. My family fled this land so long burned in to our blood. The life from that house, it's remaining heart had fled with us.

I close my eyes and can see his face. That dear face, gone from this earth, three years ago.