I miss you dad!

 

If the link above should quit working, listen to Tears in heaven by Eric Clapton

    On Sunday, the handle on my kitchen door broke. Being a shitty Chinese door with non-standard size, I had to order it and it arrived Tuesday. Spent 3 hours on Tuesday and 1,5 hours on Wednesday to fit the damn thing, buy a chisel, hack out a bigger hole for it and clear the way for it to close, but I got it done. If my father could have been here, he would've probably done it in less than an hour. Unfortunately, he passed a way ten and a half years from pancreatic cancer. 

   My father worked with wood all his life. He was a pattern maker by trade, working with wood , epoxy and polyesteric resins, fibreglass and all manner of solvent based paints and glues. He also made probably hundreds of doors, windows, staircases, and pieces of furniture and fitted hundreds of locks to doors and windows (I watched him myself fit about a dozen over the years). Not only that, but he had all the tools, all the knowledge and skill to shape wood any way he wanted, and he always took pride in his work. I loved to see the beaming in his eyes when he ran his hand along a freshly planed and sanded workpiece to check it was straight. 

    A few months after he was diagnosed with cancer, I had to do the same thing with a lock on the front door of my studio. Even though he was sick, he packed his tools and came and fitted that new lock without me even asking; I had only told him I bought a new one. 

      Although there is no doubt in my mind he loved us (me, my brother and my mother), I don't recall ever hearing him say that. Neither did I ever say that to him. We were men, we lived up to society's vision of what men should be and behave. I don't think I saw him shed a tear when he got the news his dad died, or maybe he did that when he was alone. He taught me to play handball, use a screwdriver, ride a bike, all the things fathers do. I visited him the day before he passed away, he was on morphine because of the pain and stuporous. I didn't tell him I loved him then either, not knowing it would be the last time I saw him. The next day, at 10 o clock, my mum called me to say he passed away and 10 seconds later I realised there would never be a chance for me to tell him what he meant to me. I knew when I heard the diagnostic was a death sentence, with usually  4 months of life remaining. With my mother's excellent care, he lived for 7, the last two with morphine to help with the pain. I had all the time in the world before that (28 years since I began to talk) to tell him I loved him and what he meant to me. I didn't. Likewise, I'm sorry for that, and I miss him, I missed him for the last 10 years. 

       

I miss my dad! Not only that, but I hope he saw my handiwork yesterday from up there and that he is proud of me. I wonder if I would have missed him less if I had managed to tell him I loved him before he passed away. 

May you be loved and told that you are loved by the ones dearest to you!