Yesterday my father would have been
77 years old. But in fact he died 13 years ago in March, 1999 aged 64. In those 13 years I don’t
think there has been a single day where I have not thought about my father or
remembered something of his wisdom, advice, kindness or generosity of spirit.
That is not to say that his death
did not make me angry. It did. It was way too early. He never saw me married
(or indeed divorced). He never saw me make a success of my career – something I
think he worried about. He never saw me become my own man. (Although many
believe that one only becomes one’s “own man” upon the death of one’s father .
. .) and his friendship was taken away from me far too early. And I miss it.
My father never showed up to sports
where I played. Too busy. He never understood what I did for a living. Not
interested enough. He never showed much emotion or affection. Not able to find
the way. As a result my relationship with him was distant in some ways and very
close in others.
The day of his funeral I wrote him
a letter. I read that letter in the church – which was so full, people were
gathered outside. He was a much loved man.
I was the only person in the church who did not
cry during my reading of the letter.
Indeed I did not grieve my
father with tears until nearly two years later when I read that letter again
one afternoon and began to cry, later wailing. It lasted for 3
hours without pause. I cried until I could cry no more.
I still read this letter from time
to time and remember my father. My friend. My guide. I have more or less
forgiven him for all the ways he rejected me – perhaps unknowingly – as a child,
and for finally abandoning me in his death. Now I simply miss him and wish I
could have his advice from time to time.
Fortunately he was a man of strong principle
and strong values and I have those principles and values to guide me in his
absence.
Our parents are precious. I hadn’t seen
my father for more than a month before he died – putting off visits to home
because I was too busy in my life, not calling to speak, because I’d get around
to it next week. . .
After his funeral and I returned to my apartment in London, I found a
message on the answering machine from him. It asked me to give him a call and
let him know how I was doing etc. He had left it a few days before he died. I had not returned his call. And for the last
13 years, I have wished that I had.
The letter I wrote to him for his
funeral is below:
Dear Dad
Although it is not long since we
last spoke, suddenly ‘last’ has new meaning for both of us. It seems strange
that we will never again speak to each other, that we will never again laugh
with each other, that we will never again argue with each other.
I don’t know how to say how much I
miss you, I don’t know if it is even possible to measure, just as I don’t know
how to say how much I love you.
Before you left, you gave us a
little time to say the things we wanted to say to you, but suffice to say that
whatever was said, it will never do justice to what I felt and feel about you,
my father, my friend, my guide.
There are things which you have
shown me and taught me that I haven’t yet understood, and part of your legacy
is that one day I will and for that I thank you.
One of the most painful parts of
knowing that you are gone, is knowing that you are not there anymore. Not there
to ask a question, not there to give me advice, not there to ask a favour of.
Although you are not there anymore, you will, however, always be here, with me,
with mum, with Charlie and with all your many friends, because although you
have gone, you will continue to live with us, with so many memories happy and
sad, and with so many reasons to be grateful to you.
Your quiet, unassuming approach to
life was characterised by your compassion, your dignity and your pride, but
most of all by your unqualified respect for your fellow man, be he patient,
colleague, friend or family.
You always believed in the right
and the proper. In a selfish world, you were always generous, in a cruel world,
always kind. Always human, always humane, you helped so many people in so many
ways, but never expected anything in return.
And for this I love you, for this I
am grateful to you and for this I will always remember you.
I have so much to thank you for, as
my father and as my friend. If I could be half the man you were, I would be
truly proud, as I am truly proud of you.
In finishing these words, I recall
something you wrote in the front of your bible as a child:
Take nothing away from it
Add nothing to it
Change nothing in it
Believe all of it
God bless you Dad.
Your loving son,
David
