I miss you, Dad.

Hey Dad,

There’s so much to tell you and you’ve missed a lot since you’ve gone.

Mom fell in the garden and a metal star-shaped spike with razor sharp edges (yeah, I don’t understand why it was there either) went through Mom’s hand. Kate rushed her to hospital and we all gathered around Mom to support her in the days leading up to Surgery and to her discharge when her hand was stable enough to leave.

You would have been proud of Mom, she didn’t complain once.

You would have been proud of Kate who put her foot down until Mom got a fancy private room in a public hospital no less. Kate pulled out all the stops to make Mom comfortable.

Jay brought Mom cheesecake – her favourite. Jay splashed out on 3 different kinds. Mom was stoked.

Alun went almost every day; either before or after a shift, casting his eye over Mom’s records and making sure all the cables and equipment in her room were all at peak condition.

I caught the bus an hour each way to visit Mom before she went to surgery. Mom couldn’t do her hair so I put it up into a pretty bun and brought in magazines for Mom to read.

In our own ways, Jay, Kate, Alun and I looked after Mom. You would have liked that a lot.

It’s weird the new rituals grief invents. Alun talks to your urn more than he talks to anyone in real life. You’re privy to Alun’s secrets and his hopes and dreams.

I chat to the lovingly hand-drawn picture of you on our kitchen wall as I paint, journal…or as I’m doing now – blogging.

You always said I’d be good at writing. You were right, Dad. I love it.

Every day without fail, I click onto your Facebook profile page and make sure you’re still there. I post on it often to make sure I keep your account active. I don’t know what I’d do if it was to disappear.

It gives me comfort knowing it’s there.

Dad’s Facebook.

I had no idea losing you would happen so suddenly or hurt so much. No idea. It is the most devastating, physically and emotionally painful thing I’ve ever gone through. I can’t imagine how much worse this is for Mom.

I want you to know I’m always looking out for Mom and whether Jay wants to or not, our home is always open to him and once a month I text tentatively asking how he is. Jay never answers. It feels like speaking into a vast canyon. But I try every month, Dad. I hope you know that.

I love you and I miss you.

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