The night I was born you prayed to your dad. You begged him on your knees, "Help her, please, get in there and help her". It didn't seem to fit, that you did that. You were ambivalent towards God and quietly hostile towards organised religion. We like our religion disorganised in this house, eh? You knew the Latin mass but you always had a smirk on your face and a laughing voice when you talked about it. "Introibo ad altare Dei" etc. Funny.
Your expression and voice were always haunted when you told me that story, how you pleaded with your own father to intercede. As I got older the story became thicker. You were terrified, you were sure your dad could hear you, you just knew it. The part of the story that cut me the most was when you told me about how the pain and the fear and the desperation of that night made sense to you. There was a voice in your ear that called you foolish for believing that good things would happen, that you would be happy, that your wife and child would live. You told me that when the doctors and nurses had given you the solemn warnings about loss of blood, disablement, death, you had realised - of course, this is how it happens, this is how life will break me. Even later still I learned why you thought you deserved it. After 24 hours I was out of the womb and into the world, I was your son. I was not blind, I was not disabled, I was not dead. My mum was happy and healthy and so were you. Dad, when you died I had a feeling, a quiet voice, you'd send something good in my life if you could. Your voice in my ear still and always.
You told me now and then that my childhood was the best time of your life, and that felt good but it always made me want more for you. You deserved it, I wanted to give you more, you and mum. Now I know that what we have is enough. I love telling people about how you two would come by Nana's house on your way home after a night out and even finish your night out to catch us before we slept! You'd stand there just before we'd be turning the lights out and ask her, "Is he a good boy, Mam?" and I was. I was proud to be. Me and your mum, tucked up next to each other, devoted, was the best thing you ever saw, I know because you have told me, now and then. An unwinding of the perfect tense.
You taught me how to love your mother and therefore my own, you taught me like all the best teachers, without words. On Sundays I would bring Nana her breakfast and we would continue the conversation about who loved you more, tracing the form of filial piety together. "He's my son, he was my son first"....."He's my dad, he's my dad now". We shared a best friend, you and I, in Mary. I adored her. You told me that when I used to kiss your back in the morning and say goodbye before school and work, that you carried that in your heart each day and it sustained you, made you feel able to face the world, and I got that feeling from everyone around me, the space was filled with love like light and that made me shine as well. We are all so proud, we are part of something great, we live in the shelter of each other.
At your funeral I told some stories of us. We'd go out for a few pints and then I'd walk you to the bus stop, singing "The Old Triangle" early on a Saturday evening, caring nothing of what the rest of the world thought because it made you happy. Like when I was a little boy and you'd ask me to skip because it gave you joy to see, or you'd even call me up after you'd moved out and I'd sing "California Dreamin'" down the phone on a Sunday night, or when you'd stand at the end of the street after work and howl like a wolf and I'd hear you, and howl back and come running, your boy, the other kids knew I wouldn't look back.
I can't look at soup now, or hot cross buns, or cheese, or the crossword, or drink a cup of tea without being stung like nettles in my heart but I don't mind. I wouldn't change it, if it ever goes away I'll miss it. Hardening myself would feel like cowardice now. I can feel you a part of me, alive, in my head and my heart and my blood and bones and in the things I do. Everything is alright dad, you did enough and you were brilliant.
Anyway, I was in town today getting a few things. I met Paula last week and we were talking about how you used to come in, your routine. I thought I'd told her before but she didn't remember about how I used to have you timed, so I could leave work on a free period and know exactly where you'd be without calling you. I used to get such a kick out of that. 1400 - he's in the butcher shop, yeah, there he is in the queue, don't make him jump. 1430, easy, sitting in the same place he always is, in the food court, making a sandwich with a breadknife he's not supposed to have on him, but best of luck changing that. I sit down, he hands me some fruit, or some nuts, or some chocolate. He's eating, no need for words, two left on the crossword, I've got them, I'll tell him when he asks, let him think I'm still working on it, let him eat his lunch. We sit there for a bit, I walk him out. 1520, ish, he's walking out of the lift, through Boots, checking the labels on the sandwiches, down Cross St. to Albert Square for the bus stop, if I haven't caught him at the food court, I walk up to him on the street and then go to the stop with him, because I love my old man and I'd run for 20 minutes easy and sweat through a shirt to see him before going back to work, and I want him to know it.
You used to be surprised when I'd sidle up to you in the shop or on the street, cocky, you'd ask me how I did it, but it was no big secret. Now I see you and feel you everywhere in the city. Feeding the pigeons, cutting an apple, bags of toys you'd collected, a little boat made out of a bus ticket, trying to buy you a drink without you seeing me and trying to stop me. The lad in the chicken shop wouldn't take my money when I told him you'd passed away. I wear your watch now, that I won for you, when I'm outside the house. Your blood on the strap is next to my skin, soaking in. No one would sit in your chair, so I do. Going through town today was hard, but I had some help. You might know who from, I have a feeling you introduced us.