Remembering

Sometimes it´s a conversation with a grieving friend over lunch that reminds you. Her face turning angry as she explains the family situation since her loss. Her eyes growing sad as she looks down, her expression changing. Laughter and appetite, frustration and pain.
He left us 8 years ago and yet I still remember the moment he died. His golden beard hiding his thin, pained face. My mother gathering strands in between her fingers and cutting small, neat sections with her nail scissors; ´For us to remember the rich red of his beard even at the age of 79´. His ex wife of over 20 years. The woman who bathed him when he soiled himself and came walking anxiously up to our house. The person who offered him refuge, gave him food whenever he appeared at our door.

´I love you´ were the only words he could utter at the end. The dementia took away the rest of his words, his speech, his coherence. A disease that rots your brain ( In this case a lot of brain to steal away ) and leaves you helpless.

If I could say one thing to him now I would tell him that I learnt what unconditional love was from him. Dad; a man child. Dad; a lost and frustrated being consumed by addiction and poignancy. I will never love another person as I loved him. It would be impossible to replicate.
His soft, creased hands, observing his frailty. Feeling lost, knowing that every moment was doubly as precious as the last. Piecing together the past moments we had shared, his foibles, his habits. A lonely man who was engulfed by love from his young daughters. But it would be wrong to suggest it was one sided. How he adored us, never utterly a word of criticism. A hugely tolerant, accepting father. An atypical father figure. I was loved and I loved.