His nine year old loved the nursery,
and the tree climbing
and her books.
History and flowers and trains.
And she loved her father.
And he thought of her
as he buffed his black Oxford brogues
from Loakes in London.
How they shone; a perfect gleam.
And he thought of her again
when he ironed his shirt,
how she smiled when he sang songs
and how she giggled at his jokes.
How he laughed and loved.
And then a tear
when he knotted his tie
and locked the front door,
in preparation for the Christmas mass
in her memory.