My beloved Dad died too long ago to be quite right.
It was only this year that I realised that when I say “he died too soon” what I really mean is he died too soon for me.
Does that make sense? Do you understand?
Over the years I have had so much to tell him, things I needed to share; some that would have pleased him, made him proud, others would have made him angry. He could have given me comfort when I needed it most, he would have made me laugh as he always did, given me a cuddle just because, and have continued to be his charismatic crazy self.
What I am trying to say is that I wasn’t finished with him yet. I’m still not finished.
Of course he would probably argue that he would have preferred to hang about a bit longer as well.
In the mists of time, on a bizarre whim, I pruned his roses. They all died. He laughed I think. He wasn’t bothered. He forgave me, yet again. They were horrid standards anyway. It was for the best.
My pruning skills have improved greatly since.
Happy Fathers Day x