Dad’s funeral was two weeks ago. During my speech, I surprised myself by choking up when recounting my first vivid memory of my father.
It took what seemed like ages to stumble and tremble through the words: “He helped me to fly, at our house in Hadleigh.”
I continued: “Maybe I was three? Dad would lay on his back in the lounge, draw his knees back to his chest, and get me to sit on his feet. Then he would propel me up and across the room. One time I flew so high I hit the lightshade. While I was screaming with laughter Mum stormed in and read us the riot act.”
I thought about it in the following days. Why had it moved me so much?
At some point I realised with a quiet “whoa” that the first story Dad ever told me was about how Icarus flew too close to the sun, causing the wax on his wings to melt. The feathers came loose, and Icarus fell to his death.
Something got in my system. A while later I spent hours in the back garden building myself a plane. Using old bits of wood and scrap metal. It had wings, a fuselage and cockpit. I truly believed it would lift off over the neighbour’s fence and into the blue yonder. I installed myself and gave the command. When it stayed grounded I was heartbroken.
Dad carried on helping me as I grew up. And learned my limitations.
It’s funny how things come full circle. In his last year I worked out a way to help Dad sit up in bed for his drinks, as his body grew weaker. I would nestle into his neck, and lock my arms under his armpits, before lifting him up off the bed and backwards. We used to laugh together at the effort required. “I flew through the air,” he would chuckle.
Perhaps, in the end, we helped each other to fly, in big and small ways.
The Biscuit Factory 
Huge hugs Kev. It’s strange, when we lose a loved one, the things that bite us unexpectedly. It made me smile, that you helped him to fly. In more ways than you probably know. Grief, the hardest ongoing lesson of all. Tgere are no words, only understanding ❤️❤️
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I find myself thinking of him at unexpected moments Moisy. When we brought his ashes home on Friday, Maureen was sure she could briefly smell him in the house. We’ve bought a rose, which we will plant upon a bed of Dad and Mum’s ashes. ❤️❤️
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I think that’s a beautiful thought, Kev. I think we do help each other fly in big and small ways. My thoughts are with you. Thank you for sharing. 🙂
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I’m sure your dad helped you fly Stace. And I reckon you have probably returned the favour!
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🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂
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A poignant metaphor for a man that was loved and will be remembered. It’s always a balancing act…isn’t it?…too close to the water and dampened wings detach; too close to sun and they melt…but oh the view while in flight!
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So true…
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By the way Jo, I couldn’t comment on Remains to be Seen Chapter 8. There was no access to a comments box. I wanted to say how much I enjoyed the revelation that Meredyth was Medea and Finn’s baffled reaction.
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How are you doing over there, Kev? Been a long time since your last post.
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I’m OK thanks Greg, just haven’t been inclined to post for many months now. We’ve been getting my dad’s house ready for sale, and spare time has been limited. Blogging is one casualty – It’s a habit I’ve fallen out of – but I’m sure I can fall back at some stage. Appreciate you asking. Cheers matey!
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Good to hear. Apologies for the delay in responding, I missed the notification.
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