It’s over two and a half years since my father died. Of course I still can’t believe it. You never do. His death has bought me gifts I could never have imagined. I adored my father, but like most children, sometimes I didn’t appreciate him as much as I should have. I do now. After he died, I turned around and looked at him. Not all at once, but in stolen moments when I wasn’t busy chasing children or locked to the computer working. Accumulated moments that stitched us together as father and daughter, strong double stitching with fishing thread… tough stuff that won’t break or be compromised. This looking has been unfettered by opinion or my own ego. My grief has loosened the grip of unnecessary bullshit so I could see him again with clarity. The weightlessness of non judgement saw my heart filled with love and respect, for Daddy, and for myself. As I type I see the reflection of my hands in my monitor. The shape of my fingernails seem more and more like his. This doesn’t make me wince… that a part of my anatomy is like a man’s. I am proud. Because he was a great man. I am proud because I am like him. I am of him. I no longer need to escape my past and find an alternative reality in friendships. I no longer want to agree with politics and fashion just to feel like I belong. I no longer want to sit on the fence to feel acceptance. I don’t want to share the company of those I have grown weary of. I want to be who I am. I want to be like my father who was honest and authentic, unashamedly himself, quiet in thought yet loud in his opinion when it mattered. I want to laugh louder with the fullness of the sense of humour we grew up with. The retreat inward to welcome myself back to myself has been the gift of his death. And I promise not to call you Dad just because it sounds more grown up. You were always Daddy. Thank you x
