Letter to my Father

Dear dad,


How are things up there?
What is it like to float around whenever you please, as light as a breeze touching cheeks?
I always wonder. Once in a while my mind takes a short walk through my memories and you always pop up.


I remember when mom caught me smoking and called you in an outrage I never saw the likes of before. You wanted to speak to me, and asked me what brand of cigarettes I like, since based on the conversation with my mother you understood she wasn’t going to provide me with any. Nice one!

Or the second time we met. You took me to a jazz bar, and you had a stiff whisky (I think it was, mind you I was only 12) and I had a coke and a handful of change for the pin-ball machine.
Another memory is when the doctors told you to give up smoking, drinking, eating certain foods and carnal knowledge of women, since heart attack number three would be the last one.
Well we all know how you handled that . . .


You were always the black sheep of your family, a creative genius who lived life to the fullest without looking back. No picking up pieces, no responsibilities, none of that for you
Today, it is 25 years since we buried you, but you actually left us when we were still in diapers. It’s ok, you know. I never really missed not having you around; I had a great childhood, but as a parent seeing her children slowly leave the house I often wonder, dad, would you have done it differently looking back?
It must have been so painful not really knowing any of your kids and some of them not wanting to know you. I always wanted to know you better but we never got a chance, did we? Not enough time . . .


Well, I guess that’s life, but over the last few years, and you can call me silly if you want, I’ve got this feeling you’re around somewhere. Just this strange sense of not being alone. It sounds a bit floaty-outthere-loony tunes I know, but I think it’s you and my pragmatic side just wants to make sure it is; don’t want a case of mistaken identity here.


Now listen, lately every day at about three o’clock this strange brownish-white butterfly, flies through our shop, sits on the desk, has a look around and leaves again. It’s an ugly looking butterfly and, after all, you never really were a looker.
So I am wondering dad, is that you? I mean even my girls have started to say, “hi, grandpa,” as soon as the little bugger flies in. But, to be honest, it could just as well be their great-grandfather, cause he was never a real handsome man either.
But I like to think it is you, so could you do me just one last favour?
Today, when you fly in again, would you mind sitting on my shoulder for a bit, just a second, just so I know . . .
Thanks dad, see you soon
Love