Life has been a whirlwind this past few weeks. I find myself with little time to myself, little time to reflect. I’m trying to catch up on blogging – give me time peeps!
The absence of my father in my life has been pretty unremarkable. There’s still a few things to tidy up, paperwork to be done, that sort of thing. Occasionally I’ve wondered what he’s doing and then I remember he’s dead, in a “oh yea, that’s right”, kind of way. Beyond that, nothing, really. The relief has continued, as has my mild frustration at playing the condolence game.
A few days ago I found myself wracking my brain, trying to think of positive memories of him. For some reason there aren’t any. Surely there must be some?
I remember one nice thing he used to do for Mum (it’s not record-breaking “nice”, but about the nicest I could come up with) – he used to take the dog for a walk in the morning, and would bring Mum a flower or a feather he found that she might like. That’s something nice, isn’t it?
Aside from that my memory is blank. The last gift he bought me of his own choosing was a book. I was three years old. That’s 27 years ago.
Of course my mother and I have taken some perverse pleasure in some of his behaviour over the years. English was his second language so he would often say or write something that wasn’t quite right – like the time he said he was “dying of salvation” instead of “dying of starvation”; and the time he wrote “retard” as his occupation, when he meant “retired”. Of course that one left Mum and I in hysterics. Doubled over, eye watering hysterics.
It’s sad I don’t have any positive memories. Have I blocked them out? Possibly there’s one thing – until about five years ago he used to wash my car on the weekends when I’d visit. Is that nice, or normal? I can’t tell. The line between normal, abnormal and nice is so f*cked up and blurred for me. That’s wrong.