the first hundred years without my father..

Heya Bab,

It has been a while since I have written. I am living life like a multi coloured montage of adventure and it keeps my eyes busy, my fingers tip tapping. The life of leisure still seems to speed.

The anniversary of your death came and went a few weeks back and I was glad I had chosen to keep on going, rather than travelling home to sit and mourn in a place that holds of less of you than my heart will ever carry.

Father’s day darkened the horizon like black cloud. It bought a sudden shock of showers, tears, and then was gone. Just another nothing. It brought nothing but took nothing neither. You are still with me.

I did not write. It didn’t seem right to. I thought of you, but I do that often if not always, and there was no need to mark that.

So Bab we still talk but you don’t get your say quite so much. My heart gives you words and you have to say them, so you are more cooperative now than you ever were before! You wouldn’t like that much…

You are close and yet far. It seems a hundred years since I held your hand and saw you in your eyes, before confusion dimmed them. But you are always with me. You are mine as I was yours.

Once in a while do I feel loss like a heavy weight, a blow to the belly.

There are days when I mourn for the futures we might have had together. But in that there seems a kind arrogance, a belief that my dream is better than the spirit of the world that’s meant to come. So I try to sit with myself, to let now blossom and have faith in the generosity of tomorrow.

I know that all that’s worth keeping is kept, that love does not diminish when flesh turns to dust. I know that you are always with me.

Sometimes I say the words, I commit to this constitution, and they sooth me.

I have grown into my vagabond life. Sometimes I am tired but it has become my normal to be blessed generously by life with both hands, to have feel my soul leaping light more often than it chooses to simply walk or take it slow.

I have so many ‘thank you’s to say that it seems only fair to begrudge little and give much. That’s what I try for, to see that the flow is me, that I am also that which brings me joy.

In this journey, this time, I feel like I walk an edge and that means frequent cloud fall. Sometimes I know myself not. Sometimes I haven’t a clue.

I am so happy for this, now, but I want more and it is hard to know when to wait, when to push, how to prod. I feel frustrated, confused, questioning without finding answers, but then I laugh and say simply that this is life, and this is living it.

There is no guidebook for all of this, only tomorrows that may or may not make sense and beauties to rain down.

I ask a lot, often find myself wanting. I feel too timid, too tame, too soft. And then I realise I cannot love these days without loving myself a little better. After all I moulded these moments, I made them from my dreams and breathed them life with my work, my little labours, my choices, my steps.

I may not have the answers but I have made something wonderful and there is much more to create.

There is a long way yet to go bab but I think you would be proud. I’m sure you are proud.

Love ya.

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7 Responses to the first hundred years without my father..

  1. cuhome says:

    Wow. Your stuff always leaves me with a tear in my eyes and a clench in my throat, and best of all, with the wonder that love really is this strong! Thanks for all your shares!

  2. I am in awe of your capacity to describe feelings of loss and sorrow with grace and hope.

  3. Kristie West says:

    Beautiful beautiful beautiful

  4. John says:

    Beautiful, Laura, a wonderful tribute to both your dad and you!

  5. JJ says:

    He’s up there looking down on you. Proud. Happy for you. And perhaps sprinkling a little bit of blessing and happiness your way 🙂

  6. Seadog says:

    Beautiful tribute, full of feeling. I still get those kicks in the stomach, but my loss is more recent.
    I’m sure your dad is very proud of you
    love n hugs xxx

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