The Vase

The old house has a long, narrow hallway, with an enormous copper vase next to the front door.

Stupid place for a vase — you have to shuffle past the bloody thing to get in and out of the house — but inconvenience soon became routine, and that's where it has stayed.

Dad put it there when we were kids, told us to never, ever move it. He was deadly serious, and we knew it. That was our Dad, alright.

We filled it with umbrellas, Prudence's gnawed tennis balls and Sarah's hockey sticks. Now, it’s Dad's walking sticks, gathering dust.