I Miss Him Every Day

Wednesday 16 September was the fourth anniversary of Dad’s death. Mark it. You don’t need to write it down in your calendar but a little nod as you read this would be appreciated.

I miss him every day.

We’re still busy at work. Really fucking busy. And the other week I was organising with customers and sorting out our production schedule and trying to do a couple of other things. My brain was on fire, but in a good way. Doing three things at once. I stopped suddenly and gave out a little sob. My Dad would never get to see me like this. Really fucking busy and enjoying work. Taking steps in his shoes as Managing Director and keeping the business ticking over. I know he’s proud of me though. I’m lucky, he would tell me all the time. I cried as I wrote that sentence.

I miss him every day.

I was driving home from work last week, full in the knowledge that this week was the upcoming anniversary. Every now and then I try and tell an imaginary person the story of how Dad died so I can then say it in real life if I have to, because it upsets me and I don’t want to be in floods of tears if I am surprised by the topic. I was driving and doing well. I got through 2/3rds of it. And then burst into tears. Don’t worry I was safe and so were others on the road. The grief I invited in whacked me round the bracket. I then cried on and off all the way home.

I miss him every day.

I’m sorry to tell you if you don’t already know, but grief is always there. Sometimes it’s off for a walk on one of those stretchy dog leads. Lost in the long grass sniffing some fox shit, trying to resist rolling in it. And sometimes it’s a pressure just behind your eyes and right in your chest, ready to burst out like alien seeking it’s prey. It’s always around somewhere.

I miss him every day.

I cried when I reread this post to edit it. Thank you for reading.