Why aren’t you here?

I saw you this morning. I was walking home after taking Rosemary to school and handing Eleanor over to Mama. It was a lovely spring day and, though cold, I was feeling good and ready to face the world – or at least the computer. Then I glanced up toward the post office and there you were chatting to some bloke by his car. I started to raise my hand to wave and call out ‘Morning, Papa!’, before reality came rushing back and I lowered my hand. Of course it wasn’t you. Because you’re not here anymore.

It’s been over three years now since you’ve been gone and I’ve got to the point where I don’t miss you every single moment of every single day. Some days I might not even think about you. Other days I’ll just smile at a happy memory, or get annoyed about the fact that the doors are falling off the cupboards in the kitchen and the worksurface behind the sink is falling apart and getting decidedly disgusting (and maybe even dangerous) and you’re not here to fix it for me. And then there are the times when I want to phone you up and tell you my news. Tell you about Eleanor learning to climb onto the dining chairs and table. Tell you that Rosemary has been swimming underwater. Invite you round to see my shelves and the new more functional living room that’s almost, but not quite, finished. Invite you round to have some pancakes with us. Go and have a beer and a moan with you. Put the world to rights with you. Go out dancing with you.

Some days I just don’t understand why you’re not here for me anymore and I miss you more than I can bear.

I love you, Papa.