When I think of my father I think of many things. The smell of freshly cut wood and paint, the sound of water lopping against the side of a ships haul, or fish flopping on the deck trying for one last escape but the thought the most in my memory is the way he smiled when he played that old fiddle. As if every weight or sorrow was instantly lifted and all that existed was him and four strings.
The sound of that fiddle would emanate through the room, the smell of burning peet somehow mixed well with the flowing music as if they where dancing, these where my earliest and fondest memories. Even with my Mum being gone I was never sad for I had my father, brother and those four strings.
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