Dad

This is my dad. Not my actual dad, obviously. It wasn't a Han Solo type bronzing process. His mortal remains (my dad's, that is), his ashes, were scattered on Creag Dhubh near Newtonmore 11 years ago. This doesn't stop me talking to him. He's in the hall, beside the dvd cupboard and the door into the porch. I put my hand on his bonnet as I go by sometimes. I leave bits of heather by him. I chat to him. "Well dad, another windy peculiar September day and not much chance of riding". He's a good listener.