I can visualise his face, I can remember how he looked as he laughed, I can remember a thousand little facets of his character and outlook, but I can no longer remember his voice.
I can remember every minute of that day; the call late at night, the flashing blue lights, the ambulance getting lost, the tears, the horrible hot chocolate, my throat so tight I couldn’t talk, and seeing the body that was both him and not him. However I can no longer put a voice to a thousand different conversations still remembered.
I’m told I sound like him on the phone, but that is something that I can never hear.
I can remember sitting on my sofa at home feeling drained, and I can still remember my two sons coming wordlessly in and sitting either side of me to put their heads on my shoulders; and that still brings tears to my eyes even now.
I haven’t written anything on this blog since that day, not through the usual laziness but I knew it would be a roller-coaster of emotions to try and get this post out. I can feel the tears rolling down as this is written.
I can’t remember my dad’s voice, for which I feel both guilty and sad about, but I *CAN* remember the love he showed us, the silly things he did, the way he annoyed his grandchildren and the thousand little things he did for us because he could, and I can feel myself smiling when thinking about him.
…and that feels good enough.
Rest In Peace Dad.