My regret is that I didn't speak to Dad on Father's Day. I had been meaning to, of course, but I had been caught up with the Gallery and our immediate little family. I thought there'd be another time. I just hope Dad knew how much he was loved.
This week has been a multi-layered swirl of images and memories. Dad as a toddler with a mop of blond curls. Dad in the awkward age of youth in his Melbourne Grammar uniform. Dad, shirtless, leaning against the rail of a navy ship somewhere in the Coral Sea, either in his late teens or very early twenties.
Dad as a young man with an old face. I always thought Dad grew into his face as he grew older. Astonishingly, his face only really aged in the last few years of his life.
Dad playing with his growing brood. Dad making me hot tea and sitting with me in the morning sun, Snoopy the dog tied to the clothesline. Dad reading to me every night until I was ten years old. These flashes are so vivid that I hope never to lose them.
Dad with Mum. He adored her - the brilliant, glorious, beautiful, but clouded woman that she was. Their relationship played havoc with our lives as we grew up. When all was well, peace reigned. When chaos reared its ugly head and careered through Mum's psyche, we held our breaths, kept our heads down and endured the storm. Dad didn't have the intensity of personality to challenge her. He was like Mars to the power of her Sun.
He always just wanted her to be happy.
The nature of Mum's control meant that I often did not see either of them for multiple years. And so I missed being with Dad. When calm reigned, I spent as much time with both of them as possible. And Dad and I would escape to have private outings together.
Dad, with a relaxed smile, sitting at a cafe in Montville on a stunning summer's day. Dad and I walking together. Dad and I shopping together. Dad wearing his favourite colourful shirts. He was not a beige man at all.
Being with Dad on his eightieth birthday. Dad, as proud as punch, making his speech at our wedding at the age of eighty-eight. He naturally apologised for remaining seated.
Dad's face, ablaze with joy, when we saw him twice in the last year of his life. Dad enjoying a couple of glasses of vino at my brother's sixtieth birthday lunch. Oldest brother David urged caution, whilst Dad had the demeanour of a naughty schoolboy playing hooky. The rest of us were Dad's willing accomplices.
Kissing Dad goodbye. Promising to see him in February. Except he has already returned to the universe.I expect he has been reunited with his beloved life partner. And if Mum was a diamond, my darling Dad was a deep and clear star sapphire.
I'm sitting on Simon's verandah, overlooking the magnificent Burnett River.An array of local birds are fluttering and chatting around me, eager to enjoy the daily morsels provided by my brother.
Yesterday was all about travel, visiting the Care Centre to gain information about Dad's death, returning to Dad's room and drinking in the familiarity of his loved possessions. We dropped Dad's clothes to the funeral home and met Mark, a very tall and gentle staff member. Yesterday was not easy.
Today is peaceful. I can sit and let the memories flow over me. Dad is now with me, wherever I am. Whatever the following days bring, that is a wonderful gift.
Love you, Dad.
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