The shape of grief

It would’ve been my Dad’s birthday yesterday, he would’ve been 79.

I didn’t post about it yesterday, more by happenstance than planning, but I did think about him and one thing struck me. I think more about my Dad on any given day than I do about my Mum or my sister.

Now, I’m not attributing scores nor logging time spent or any other quantifiable means for this but it only really struck me last night. I was lying in bed reading a book but couldn’t really focus on it as the scene I was reading happened to be a daughter reunited with her father after a few months apart. My Dad passed 5 years ago but I realised that if I had one choice to make, it would be to bring him back for a day (a la Ian and Barley, and yes my social constructs are largely focussed around my son’s Pixar movie watching preferences).

Being the over thinker I can be (I know, dear reader, I can tell you are shocked!) I immediately started questioning what that meant for how I think about my Mum and my sister, how I’ve been processing their grief. It’s not that I loved them less although the shape of that love is very different.

Now I realise this seems very obvious but perhaps it’s because Dad never met Jack, never saw me as a father and, well, I just wish the two of them had been able to meet. If Jack thinks his Daddy is a silly billy then I think meeting his Grandfather may have blown his mind!

I have no illusion that if Dad were here he would’ve suddenly started offering me advice and wisdom, that wasn’t his way, but I at least think he would’ve been happy to see all the love and care he gave me is being passed on twofold (if not three).

Passing anniversaries are strange things. Reflecting on all the missed experiences with those who have departed is natural and, for me at least, often brings up additional thoughts on everyone else who has left us far too soon.

So it’s not that my Mum and especially my sister don’t loom large in my mind everyday, but the recency of their passing makes it different. My grief for them is still sharp and jaggy, and can be difficult to hold at times. Thoughts of them puncture me rather than slide into my mind with a softness.

I got thinking about how we would’ve visited Mum & Dad yesterday with cake, a selection of sweet treats and a book voucher for Dad, a day to celebrate his birthday whilst Jack ran around in his usual manner, and I just know I’d’ve been watching Dad watching my son. Sensing the pride he would’ve had in me even if he would’ve struggled to express it.

Christmas is the next big anniversary day, the second without Mum, the first without Jennie, and no doubt similar feelings will catch up with me at some point. But I know the passing of time will soften these things, will mould them into something else, something more celebratory and kind, something to hold on to rather than fear.

I miss my Dad.