Visiting Dad

I have just come back from spending the weekend with my Dad. It is still hard going back and seeing the house without Mum in it. There are photos of her everywhere. The kitchen was always her jealously-guarded domain; it is heart-breaking seeing her pots and pans and larder full of neatly labelled jars, her baskets and plates and ornaments. I kept finding notes in her handwriting. Bulbs in the garden pushing up through the dark soil, carefully labelled by her 'Narcissus - Pheasant's Eye', I remember her telling me it was a favourite when I told her about my bulbs last spring. Dad still feels her presence, I feel only her absence.

Dad is drawing on deep reserves of courage to cope with life after the no-anesthetic amputation of bereavement after sudden illness. He is doing better than me in many ways. He is looking after himself, going out and socialising, continuing with his ministry duties and is supported in this by many kind thoughts and prayers and practical help from friends. I am very proud of his grace and determination.

Mum and Dad were so looking forward to retirement together, they lived and worked together for almost forty years. It would have been their ruby anniversary this August. The money set aside for a present for Mum was spent instead on a slate headstone for the grave, which Dad visits regularly. I have not been to the graveside since the internment. I can't.

Dad has taught himself to cook - this started when I bought him a cookery book at Kew Gardens, which we visited together last year. This weekend he bought a casserole dish and I taught him some more recipes: he made a lovely beef and Guinness stew. We spent Sunday afternoon with my brother and his wife and baby; his grandson brings much joy even in days when Dad is very sad and raw.

I said he should get a dog, to live with him, so the house won't be so empty.

He is thinking about it.