One year without dad
This week marked a year that we lost my beloved dad, John Anderson. To think that it’s been a year that I haven’t spoken to him or seen him. It doesn’t seem possible. That life is going on without him near, feels absurd. That he’s not here to see what I’m up to, all the big steps I’ve taken this year. I can’t fathom it.
I love when people tell me that my dad would be proud of me. Or that he’s watching over me, smiling down on me. Sometimes I find that hard to believe. But I’ve come to a fresh understanding this week, whether it’s hard to believe or not, I have to believe it. I was feeling so bereft because I couldn’t feel dad around me. My sister would say that she could feel him around us, so close. And I didn’t feel anything which surprises me because I’m spiritually literate and well into this kind of thing. But this week, I made the conscious decision to believe that he is with me. This week, I started to remember him and all his isms, his fun side, his silly side, his parenting style, things that irked me and things that made me absolutely adore him. My sister and I spoke about dad for hours. I had been afraid of forgetting him, losing my memories but through writing my notes and speaking with my sister, I felt dad with us. Alive in some way. Our mother-in-law reminded us of the quote “They say we die twice. Once when the breath leaves our body, and once when the last person we know says our name”. So there you have it, as long as we keep saying his name and honouring him, he’s still alive with us in some form.
How I Remember You
“Dame un beso” means give me a kiss
in Spanish. Recurring words my memory
clings to, spoken in dad’s tone, calling my name.
My father, my hero, there from the beginning of my time, like a rock
that has always been there, majestic like an orchestra
playing on the radio on a familiar drive.
How often did I sit with dad and go for a drive?
I used to see him every day and greet him with a kiss.
He was always so happy so see me, the orchestra
booming or humming in the air. A comforting memory
of my parent’s home. The music concrete, there like the rock
of my father’s presence. Capturing my upbringing. How to sum it up in a name?
I remember the way dad called my name
Swallowing a syllable. It’s not vital to life, not like a drive.
A favourite pastime, wherever the destination – city, beach or rock
We would people watch, eavesdrop conversations, watch lovers kiss.
The purpose for being out. Sometimes dad liked to travel down memory
lane. Revisit places he lived, worked or first heard a particular orchestra.
I once asked dad which member of an orchestra
he would be. He loved music. I’ve only just learnt the name
of a music lover – a melomanic. Any relation to mania? Our shared memory
of some low points, hard to answer topics, even on a drive
Usually the best place to discuss or clash heads. I once was slow to kiss
and make up with dad. Once willing to turn my back on the rock.
The funny thing about it is that the rock
never moved. Ever constant like the daily habit of tuning in to an orchestra
One day you will miss his presence, wanting to kiss
and hug and apologise and call him by his pet name
One day you would yearn for the longest drive
imaginable. Committing more time and experiences to memory.
We made up. Now I search through the archives of my memory
Life has overturned and my footing sometimes falters as I have lost my rock.
I’m making several journeys but they’re not the same as a drive
with dad. I used to watch dad conducting an orchestra
in the warmth of our home. It’s the myriad of small things by some name
or other that I miss. At the end unable to share a kiss.
I want to drive cross-country in dad’s memory
Reach the coast, blow a kiss to the sea and look out to where water meets rock,
with nature sounds reaching a crescendo like an orchestra, honouring his name.
I so loved your poem very true of hi im, youre gifted. Thanks a
so much for sharing
Thank you Aunty Grace. Lots of love to you xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx