Sitting With My Dying Dad
I sit beside his bed, watching, waiting.
I’m his firstborn, only daughter. Our bond, unshakeable, immense, complex. “No-one loves me as much as you, Dad”. “Yes…that's true”.
He says I was difficult at times. I would stand up and shake the bars of my cot until I received his attention. He was difficult too!
I remember his bear hugs. I would stand on my bed, enveloped in his broad chest and he would squeeze me tight. I felt safe. Loved.
He had a stutter. It was most prevalent when he was upset or angry. I’ve always felt protective when he struggled to say what he wanted.
Sent to boarding school at a young age. Is that when the stutter began? Or was it the bullying perpetrated by an older brother?
Singing was his solace. A deep, rich baritone. No stutter when he sang in choirs, only joy. Panis Angelicus, Handels Messiah, Mozart, Albinoni, a rich heritage of music enriched his life, and mine.
I will miss his voice.
And his hands. Sturdy, fleshy, skilled. A master craftsman, an engraver, a leathercraft tool maker. Meticulous and patient. A smoky workshop, he liked his nicotine, moments we would spend…
