He was a
collector. Not necessarily of all things beautiful, just objects of interest
that came his way. Things that made an impression on him and made him think of days
gone by.
He was good
with his hands. He would collect these pieces and recreate something magical –
sometimes for others, mostly for her. Whittling away the hours, he would think
of nothing but their past together.
It started so
long ago when he would gather little trinkets on their travels to remind
himself that he was so full of life.....
His house
was full of these collectables now. Delicate butterfly’s pinned to boards in
vibrant blues and pinks, vivid red silks and Italian laces from trips to exotic
lands, yellow wild flowers looped together in bunches and tribal jewellery
she’d once worn with pride.
The
butterflies were what he treasured most though. He had found the carcass of a
butterfly once that had wings so dry, it turned to dust upon his touch. Right
there in his hands until the smudge of colour was just that and nothing more.
