My Dad died nine years ago today. It was a heart attack and compared to the horrifying long goodbyes of some people’s deaths it was mercifully quick, although way too early at the age of 63.
He was a simple man, my Dad: He liked his sport on the telly and a bit of gardening and anything to do with motor racing – he would have loved Top Gear. He would so very much have loved to see his grandsons play rugby, one for Switzerland and one for Dorset County but they were aged only 9 and 6 years at the time of his death. Still, he lives on in their unfailing enthusiasm and both look very much like him as a young man.
He would have also enjoyed his two granddaughters, one turning into a dancer (who would have thought? But then you were such a brilliant jiver) and the one who was only into her 4th month gestation at the time and as such the only one present at his funeral. His parting words to me the last time I saw him were
“Take care of that baby.”
I do, Dad.
October 15th is not written in my diary as anniversaries of deaths are hardly to be celebrated, but still the day is not passed without a stirring of that ephemeral link that joins us all to those who have passed over into the inevitable.