His Shed.

The door sticks, wood swollen from rain. I tug until it's release prompts an exhalation of creosote and dust.

I stand as you did against a bench of rusted tins, bits and bobs, a curation of things kept for just in case.

And an envelope, pretty stamp, address from two houses back. It feels lumpy. Nestling inside little jewelled beans. Saved and dried from last year's crop.

A memory whispers from a cobwebbed corner of seeds you found after your Dad's funeral in his shed.

I'll take them home. Sow to remember. And probably dry some for next year's crop.