Printer's Tray

My grandad was a builder by trade, but his real passion was carving wood into miniature flowers, animals and even people.

For my fifth birthday he gifted to me an old printer’s tray he’d found in a junk shop. I asked him to carve a wooden frog for me every birthday and Christmas until it was full. Rather than ridicule it as the daft idea of a child, he shook my hand and solemnly promised that he would do his best. Gradually each space was filled with a whimsical carving; frogs playing sports, driving cars, or dancing, performing perfect pirouettes. He knew my sense of humour and his gifts were never a disappointment.

The one remaining gap isn’t an irritation, but the ache of a gentle sadness. He never had the opportunity to complete the collection, and decades later I still mourn his loss.

‘Happy birthday, Gran. I’ve made this for you.’

It’s a pyramid of tightly packed spheres. My beautiful sixteen year old grandson watches me run my fingers over the smooth surface.

‘It’s frogspawn, to represent new life. I thought…’

He looks towards the empty space. It seems he’s inherited my grandad’s woodcarving skill along with his looks.