Three years ago, on the eve of Fathers' Day, I stayed up into the early hours, making a card for my Dad; my 'expert' tools comprising the leaf-patterned, cardboard interior of a Kookaï bag, some peach picture cut-outs, and all-important glitter pots 'n' pens. Inside, I inscribed a Wayne Hemingway quote that I'd saved for the occasion, one that I felt aptly captured my Dad's knowingness and judicious self-containedness, in the often chaotic settings of our household:
'I'm used to living with fiery women, & it
always amused me & made me proud that
my Grandad never got into it. He'd stay silent
& tap his foot, & when he got told off for
that, he'd go outside & look at his peaches.'
always amused me & made me proud that
my Grandad never got into it. He'd stay silent
& tap his foot, & when he got told off for
that, he'd go outside & look at his peaches.'
Not in my darkest imaginings could I have forseen that this person - so brimful of life and so very dear to me - would be gone from me so shortly thereafter, with only a handful of Fathers' Days having passed in the interim.
