In those final days of his life, I sat with him, and we danced around the words that refused to be uttered by either of us. Our true thoughts remained trapped inside our sad hearts. We spoke of trivial matters only. – the weather, the cricket, and the hospital food. Banter at best. The only time we got close to the truth was when he asked me if I had found all the envelopes that he had left at his house. Envelopes, that contained instructions for his funeral.
My father was so totally organised. His instructions were ordered and clear. His preparation, immaculate. It was too close for me. I quickly re-assured him that I knew where to find them and searched my mind for another subject. Why would I want this to take up our time together?
I drove home that afternoon not realizing that my chance had gone. I knew that the end of his life was near but it still came as a shock when a phone call from the hospital early the next morning informed me that he had died during the night. The day stretched in front of me, my thoughts consumed with the knowledge of having not told him that I loved him deeply once more before he died.
|My earliest photo with my Dad. It's a shame I'm wearing a dress...|