In amongst the cruelty of it all, I find myself unable to write. So many thoughts and feelings and no way to write them down. I can’t speak them and when I try to write they disappear, leaving only trite sentences that mean nothing.
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I have lost my Father, the man who held me, made me feel safe, who was always proud of me, even when I sat in the midst of chaos. I am set adrift on an ocean of tears. Life will never be the same again. My heart is broken and I am lost for words.
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What did I learn from you? Relax your muscles when it’s cold. Crying won’t get it written. Generosity. You never forget your first love. Consequences. There is always a joke. Grief is for us.
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I saw you cry so many times. Unafraid, unashamed. I remember you weeping at the dinner table, as you talked about identifying the bodies of your colleague and one of the lads who had been killed while out cycling. You taught us so well about grief, but you didn’t teach us how to live without you.
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I remember doing the dishes with you, you washing, me drying, and we sang together. Go Down Moses, if you were in a mischievous mood, and I Know Him So Well - with you taking Barbara Dickson’s part to my Elaine Paige.
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You loved music, always listening to the radio or popping a record on. James Taylor, Vin Garbutt, John Denver. The care with which you put the needle down on to the vinyl, left hand in the air, ready for the dancing. Folk music on the radio in the evening. You made a mix tape of Irish songs for us to listen to in the car on our way to Ireland, and printed out all the words so we could sing along. How surprised we all were when you told us you liked Eminem, and backed it up by telling us the name of his band. How you predicted Craig David would be a hit. How much you enjoyed Jennifer Paige’s Crush in the 90s, before Shakira turned up and eclipsed that! Hips Don’t Lie could drag you back to any dance floor. If only it could bring you back to us now.
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A lady in the street once loudly said to her child, “Say thank you! You’re here because of this man!” about my Dad, because he and Mum had helped her when she had a crisis pregnancy.
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His smile lines, so much more apparent at the end of summer when they were white against his tan. And when I think of white against tan, I can’t help but think about Dad’s inability to put on sun cream. White handprint on his back, white swipes across his front, the rest bright red.
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When Mum went into hospital to have Matthew, I went to sleep in Mum and Dad’s bed. I don’t remember who was looking after us. But I remember being woken by Dad, sliding into bed next to me, whispering, “You’ve got a new baby brother.” I went back to sleep, curled up next to him.
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As Good As It Gets. With Jack Nicholson. I recall very little of the actual film, but what stays clearly in my mind is how much it made you laugh. Tears running down your face. Guffawing.
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I watched a new Would I Lie to You episode last night. Bob Mortimer was on it. He has always reminded me of you. He was telling some story about a footballer and cheese, and I thought to myself, “I must ask Dad if he’s watched this one yet.” But I can’t. There’s no more sharing these little joys with you.
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