Four years ago, my Dad died.
Last night, I dreamt about him. The dreams were calm, it was like he hadn’t died and he was asking how I was while he was reading a paper and smoking his pipe. God, I used to love watching the whole rigmarole of him patiently cleaning, filling and then smoking his pipe. When I was little, I’d always nick his pipe-cleaning penknife and marvel at the assort of prongs and teeny scrapers.
I told him about the girl I’m in love with and showed him pictures. His comments were perfectly him: “Well, she’s very pretty! If she has a brain, too, she may be good for you. Be careful you don’t lose her!”
I’ll try not to, Dad. I’ll try.
When I woke up, I thought, ‘oh, I should give him a ring, have a chat!’ And than I remembered I couldn’t. It was that liminal moment between dream and reality where everything slumps back down on your shoulders and a small storm of despair rises and falls in the space of a second.
So I had a cry and then got on with the morning; the routine of showering, shaving and then trying to remember the good, happy times with him.
He really was the best Dad ever.