You know I can’t do grief on demand. When you finally went, I could breathe out again and think of all the fun and amusing things. Those two stifling years at the end were and still are unreal to me. I need to stick with thoughts of your prime, the others will have to do their whaling and tears. My mind won’t let me register your passing, it was only a bit of admin isn’t it? Let me pretend you’re still there in the way I knew you.
In that hospital I watched mum plump up your pillows. Your face shone in ecstasy as your princess was with you.Could you feel me squeezing your hand? We never easily expressed emotion with each other but did you go knowing how dearly I loved you? Mum verbalised her usual trivia yet she only spoke these filler words to break our silence so full of dread and late regrets. You looked at us with complete knowing, a wisdom that transcended time and your present weak physical being.
I was overcome with the new vision of you that I could not fathom. I fled to that day room and wept in front of a home makeover programme so you would not see my belly cry. As visiting time cruelly ticked on, I knew our reluctant performance would be ending soon. We were three cast members amongst a hateful script that we knew was written to lead your last show.
Mum walked you along the tubular corridor. A bleak walk, absurdly short so we’d have to summon up mental images of green lush scenery, a Cotswold breeze and hilltop views. We’d superimpose these coloured fantasies over the hospital notice boards, disinfectant smell and grimy windows overlooking the air conditioning pipes.
Remember when we all stood in front of the electric sliding door exit? You, the child, pleaded to come with us instead of turning back to grey suffocating walls of nothing. You wanted to come back and rest in Mum’s lavender duvet of dreams. The other side of the door had air and more life, I wanted to escape, you did too. In your mind you were well and would be planning a country excursion for my mum, a barbecue or perhaps a wedding celebration.
As mum walked you back to the ward, I sat on a plastic chair and stared along the long corridor tunnel. My eye vision at the back of you both, framed by the sharp tunnel perspective of the corridor to the horizon. I will not forget the corridor scene dad. It looked like a mum leading a little Greek boy in pyjamas back to his bed. You clung to her with your short, shrunken frame walking further and further away from my view. An inseparable romance, yet you, a frightened lost boy being guided back to bed by his Disney angel.
We all knew what was to come. Life as you wanted it had become impossible. The struggle needed to end. Two years on, I still can’t grasp that you’ve really gone. You are part of me every day and can’t be taken. Dad, I can’t keep going to that cemetery, as I just don’t feel you are there. We’ll be together when I head into your part of the town OK? I’ll feel you near me at the car boot sale, at any barbershop, down the Cotswold lanes and feeling the sun on your Greek Island. I want to forget visiting time and remember your character, your accent, your gestures, your phrases, your way.
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