At my father’s house

At my father’s house spring has begun.

At my father’s house there is blossom on the fruit trees.

At my father’s house I can see my sister’s shoes left forgotten just inside the glass doors from last summer.

At my father’s house you can wander from secret garden to secret garden scrunching on the leaves, scaring off the fat wood pigeons.

At my father’s house, primroses.

At my father’s house, millions and millions of books.

There! I hope you like the quick picture show. I was there today briefly. It is so peaceful. It is only about 6 miles away from my house but it is a different world. My father is a professor and lives in a library surrounded by garden. It is where I grew up. At the moment he is writing a book about Japanese gardens. My mother is also a professor but her house is quite different, maybe I can show you sometime.