Grandfather's Workshop II

And then, for no reason at all, my grandfather popped to mind.

I recalled that day I visited him where he worked, down by the market square. It lay in the old town where some of the streets were still paved with cobbletones. Some said they'd been laid down hundreds of years ago and when I was a boy I thought they were skulls stuck in the ground. I never could pry one up though, to confirm my suspicions.

The walk to the shop meant that I had to cross the tumbledowns, acres and acres of fallen brick and mortar and gap toothed windowsills. And then, when I turned the corner on Holy John street, there it was. Grandfather's workshop. Just as tidy and ordered a place as a man could hope to have in those times. Whitewashed, it shone like a beacon and stood out like a nail in a two by four.

It reminded me of church.