I finally got round to putting something down about my father.
Like medicine after death, literally, because he is dead and gone.
Died December 7th, buried December 28th, Beloved Father, Brother, Uncle, Grandfather, Cousin, and all the other names they wouldn’t let us put in the obituary…Friend to his Children, Humorist, Lover of British Comedy who Introduced me to the Magic that is Sarcasm, Motivator, Adviser, Truth-Teller, Shame-Coverer, Patient Listener, Calmer of Hysterical Women …
(I’m sorry I never told you all this when I had you with me; you were never one for emotionalism. But I like to think that you knew, somehow, just how much I love you. Love you, I say, and always will, because even if you are gone, my love for you will never die. And remember that you once told me that, as long as you love and you are loved, then the person you give your love will never die, but remain in the hearts and minds of every one they’ve ever had impact on?
So if you’re reading this wherever you are (as you used to read my blog and share your thoughts), I would love to hear your feedback. And if it’s too hard to contact me from where you are, then send me a dream of you, or a hug when I fall asleep, exhausted from the tears I shed for your loss.)
I miss you in the little things, the routines that rule my days.
I cry over a cup of tea because you and I liked our tea the same way (2 sugars, one lime).
I cried over my chocolate biscuits last week, because we always used to share them, remember?
I think back on that last big breakfast I cooked for you a few months ago. You had the biggest grin on your face.
“You always know how to catch me, Uchenna! Your cooking !” you said, as I buttered an extra piece of toast for you.
You said to me once that you knew you hadn’t been perfect as a father, but you hoped that at the end of everything, when your life was weighed in the balance, you would be found to have been a good man.
A good man, you said. Your exact words. You were right you know.
You weren’t a perfect dad or a perfect man. But you were good enough for me. You are the yardstick against which I measure all others, and for that I am thankful. Because you were the very best.
I miss you dreadfully. Every day brings a new set of memories to smile about, think about, weep about.
Every day brings fresh platitudes from people I work with, or see, or talk to. Its as if they see that I’ve lost a piece of myself. I have. I lost it when they threw the sand on your casket that last day, because it seems obscene to me to still be whole in a world that doesn’t have you anymore.
I hope you understand what I’m trying to say. You always said,
“Keep your writing clear, concise and ramble-free”, and I’ve tried to do that. I hope you approve, oh Stringent One!
I love you, and I miss you, Dad.