His Hot Wheels were set up just so. One day like a colour wheel, the next day by size or speed or purpose. Being a good father I noticed, pondered the categories and classifications and then moved a car or two around. He would always notice.
When I visited my dad I did not leave flowers or chocolates as tokens of affection. The toothbrush was turned in the holder, a book was moved in the bookshelf and a coffee cup was rotated so the handle pointed North instead of South. He would always notice.
It took awhile to build the path. In the morning they would walk through the glade and gather ripe stones; those that have broken the bonds of earth. In the afternoon they would lay them out side by side. The criteria was random, no pattern should show. Rocks are born in chaos, raised in chaos and needed to be comfortable in a home they recognized.
Large and two small; small, small, large, extra large; all within the four feet of width and 120 feet of length dictated. The best worker, a part timer for the week, managed to make me take four long strides before the pattern repeated. Such a lovely fractalled mind and yet her name escapes me.
the stone path
a lovely pattern
random is strong
in true genius
and undotted i’s