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Sorting his father's clothes was hard to bear. It seemed his essence lingered in their very fibres. Having lived with him over the past six months, Daniel had grown to know him again, and would like to have known him more. But it was not to be. The distinct smell of spring met him as he opened the window that morning.

Due to return to Wales shortly, Aunt Rachel had been going out a lot, though he didn't know where. Wherever she went, she was always eager to go, and he hadn't asked any questions. Something had lit her life again. And he thought he knew what it was. She was seeing Miranda's father. Daniel was glad of that just then for it helped her cope with her grief. There was still a lot of work to be done before any of them could surface. His father's clothes must be sorted out ...

Daniel shook out a black bin-bag and opened it. As he piled in the clothes, trying to forget they had once been part of his father's life, the filmy plastic clung to his fingers. What a terrible thing it is, a black bin-bag, he thought, securing it with a tight knot. And he wondered for a moment what people ever did without them. They were almost like black holes for the sad detritus of humanity. That afternoon, someone would come from the church again to take things away. Who, he wondered, would walk out in his father's clothes? Somewhere in his mind, he could hear his father laughing. Or see him winking. He'd rarely laughed. Most of his humour was dry. He'd have thought the whole scenario very funny.

Lifting another suitcase down from the wardrobe, Daniel opened it. A dank and musty smell pervaded the room. The last time his father had used it was when he had gone to Rome with a colleague for a holiday. He'd returned refreshed, but the mood hadn't stayed with him long. He had little will to pull himself out of his misery. And little strength.

Daniel folded his shirts. Had they fitted him, he'd have worn them. They were good strong cotton. Similarly, he liked the sweaters his father chose. They were beautifully knitted in soft warm wool but they too were the wrong size. He couldn't believe his father had gone for ever. Always expecting his key in the lock, the weight of his absence pressed on his mind each day.

Towards his death, there had been no signs of the ghosts. And swallowed up in his private grief, had they appeared, Daniel would probably have ignored them. He gazed round the room. It seemed somehow windblown. He could almost feel the bewildered leaves of memory falling about him; careless, inventive, sacred and profane. What must his father have thought in that airless, windowless, room? Might things have been different with a window? Might there have been more joy in his soul had there been a window to let in the light? Was it possible that something as simple as that could alter the course of your life. He shook his head.

Taking his father's grey suit from the back of the bedroom door, he emptied the pockets. In them was a fountain pen and a box of licorice imps. Old-fashioned now, he doubted anyone would want it, though it was finely tailored. Lost in thought, he opened an inside pocket, finding a silver brooch in the shape of a rose and a snuff box holding a key. He took it out. The key was tiny. Very small in his fingers. What did it fit?

The Other Concerto

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 © Wendy Bardsley 2014

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