Are you still here?

Notes from an old diary. 3rd April, 2022

There is love that we build around ourselves. Borne of the gaps, spaces, the quiet and lonely times in our lives as children.

We fill the spaces with love and weave a tale of togetherness that never ends.

How wonderful to be part of something so pure and perfect.

No matter what has been and the impact, I am blessed with my beautiful family, and I am the sum total of the sadness of my own childhood that will never be an experience for my own.

There are all of these pondering about how I felt I couldn’t write. How, for years, I was struck dumb and silent, unable to write anything despite the desire to do just that. It was painful and I couldn’t get passed the sense that I just couldn’t…

After my dad died the limitations lifted and I could, I could write and write and write - more than I ever had in my life.

There's this gentle sense, like the lingering scent of perfume after someone has walked by, suggesting he's just brushed past me on these well-worn streets.

I can hear him clearing his throat and feel his warm hand enveloping mine as I match his strides with my double steps.

He feels so close here that I choke up, overwhelmed by his essence, which turns me around to ask:

"Are you here, Dad? Did you leave something behind, a sign that you haven't really left us?"