Monday, March 25, 2013


He didn't wake up, on this morning, 26 years ago.

26 years ago! That's more than half of my lifetime now, but on a beautiful morning like this, when I can almost hear his voice saying everyday things as I visualise him here in my house, it could have been yesterday. I have always imagined what it would have been like to have him come here to visit. In my heart this has always been his house. Though if he had not left us, I would never have been able to build it, so, somehow, it is as if he is this house. It is built on his blood, sweat and tears, on his dreams and aspirations, and on his hope and love for us children. I know my father loved me dearly because he told me so. Not everyday or in casual conversation but one night when he'd had too much to drink, and on those nights when I was twelve years old and terrified of the dark, when he came and slept in my room on the dreadfully uncomfortable trundle bed. I will never forget that he did that for me, it meant the world.

So, Dad, I just want you to know that I still miss you dreadfully, I still wish you could come fishing with us, play euchre (WD has just learned and loves it), sit on the deck having a cool ale in the afternoon, all of the things that we used to do, but here, in this beautiful house that 'you built'.