31 May 2011
Dear Dad,
Well mate, it's pretty much over. I've finally taken down the sympathy cards, and I've thrown out the dried and wilted flowers that beloved friends sent in those awful blurry days after you died. The thank you cards are written out, your precious things have been packed away and you've been reduced from beloved Grandad to photo on the wall.
And it hurts so much.
And I don't think I'll ever get over this.
And I don't think I'll ever stop missing you.
It's so hard trying to make memories of you for the kids when they're still so small, you know what I mean?? Cam associates you with cups of tea, and tell me he misses you. I really hope that he was old enough to form some real and concrete memories of you. I have your watch. I'm going to get it a new strap and pass it on to Cam for his 21st, when he's old enough to really appreciate it. I have 'House at Pooh Corner' for Lucy's 21st, how many kid will have a genuine 1946 edition AA Milne in their library's? I'll make sure she looks after it.
I've started reading to these kids, just like you did for us, and they LOVE it. I wish I'd started it earlier.
I spent the weekend out at your place, and while I love spending time with Mum you left a bloody big gap when you left. The house just isn't the same. Nothings the same, and I guess it won't ever be again.
Mum's doing really well Dad, she misses you like hell, but in her usual stoic way she's just getting stuck in and doing what needs to be done, and doing it well. I'm proud of her. I worry about her too, I'm trying to get over home as much as I can. I guess I should have got there more while you were still there.
I thank God everyday for the time we did spend together though.
And Jenny - Wow Dad, she's mind blowing. She's like freaken McLeod's Daughter and has taken on irrigator moving, stock moving, bull sale attending, the whole bit. I couldn't hold a candle to her, she's been amazing. I'm so proud of her. I really hope that when the time comes and the estate gets settled that she's the one in the position to buy the place, she deserves it. I just wish I could be more help.
I was replaying our last conversation the other day, it seemed fitting that our last interaction was via telephone, considering so much of our relationship for the last ten years was conducted via phone. You know Dad, I distinctly remember getting off the phone and looking at the counter - 6 minutes 33 seconds, and I remember thinking 'Wow that's probably the shortest phone call I ever had from Dad'.
I also remember asking you how you were feeling, and you told me you were 'about buggered'.
I guess you were right.
I wish I'd said something more meaningful to you before I hung up.
I wish I told you I'd love you forever.
But you knew that anyway, right??
I'll love you forever Dad.
Cath
xoxox
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Saying Goodbye
16 May 2011
Dear Dad,
Well mate, it's been a month.
It's been a month since we fare welled you in the Patearoa Hall, with your mates and your family gathered to smile and remember you.
The Hall was full Dad, you would have been stoked to see so many people there, and I just know you'd have been keen to catch up for a yarn with each and every one of them. There were people you'd never met or hadn't seen for years there too, all there to show there support when we really needed them, and we'll love those people forever.
I think the viewing us girls did the morning before the funeral was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I'm glad I did it though, it made if real, actually seeing you there in that box. But it wasn't you either? Do you know what I mean? The person in the box was too thin, too pale, too cold, too still. Just your shell. You were long gone. What made you YOU had already gone off to bigger and better things. The funeral director gave Mum a gold trinket, that had been broken in half, one half to go with you, one half to stay with her. It was a beautiful token. I patted your hair and said goodbye, and we cried. Me, Jen, Paula, Mum and Case.
You funeral was at 1:30, it was a grey day, but not wet. I had been thinking it, and Jen had said it out loud:
'The sun, for sorrow, will not show it's head'
We played Slim Dusty for you Dad, a song picked by Mum as we walked in, 'Walk a country Mile' for the reflection and 'Leave him in the Longyard' as you were carried out. It was fitting.
Jen, Mike, Tim and I spoke, you would have loved Tim's story about you losing a spring off the bailer, how you'd told him days later you thought the spring must still be in orbit. He wondered if you've found it now.
Mike, Mike, Paula, Tim, Stu and Fraser carried you out. Andy stood with us, too distraught to talk.
And then you were gone.
We drank coffee and talked with your friends in the Patearoa bowling club, and when it was over, it was over. And we went home, exhausted and drained and cried out.
A fitting tribute for one hell of a good man.
I love you Dad, and I miss you.
I think you would have liked your funeral, I think we saw you off well.
Love Cath
xoxo
Dear Dad,
Well mate, it's been a month.
It's been a month since we fare welled you in the Patearoa Hall, with your mates and your family gathered to smile and remember you.
The Hall was full Dad, you would have been stoked to see so many people there, and I just know you'd have been keen to catch up for a yarn with each and every one of them. There were people you'd never met or hadn't seen for years there too, all there to show there support when we really needed them, and we'll love those people forever.
I think the viewing us girls did the morning before the funeral was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I'm glad I did it though, it made if real, actually seeing you there in that box. But it wasn't you either? Do you know what I mean? The person in the box was too thin, too pale, too cold, too still. Just your shell. You were long gone. What made you YOU had already gone off to bigger and better things. The funeral director gave Mum a gold trinket, that had been broken in half, one half to go with you, one half to stay with her. It was a beautiful token. I patted your hair and said goodbye, and we cried. Me, Jen, Paula, Mum and Case.
You funeral was at 1:30, it was a grey day, but not wet. I had been thinking it, and Jen had said it out loud:
'The sun, for sorrow, will not show it's head'
We played Slim Dusty for you Dad, a song picked by Mum as we walked in, 'Walk a country Mile' for the reflection and 'Leave him in the Longyard' as you were carried out. It was fitting.
Jen, Mike, Tim and I spoke, you would have loved Tim's story about you losing a spring off the bailer, how you'd told him days later you thought the spring must still be in orbit. He wondered if you've found it now.
Mike, Mike, Paula, Tim, Stu and Fraser carried you out. Andy stood with us, too distraught to talk.
And then you were gone.
We drank coffee and talked with your friends in the Patearoa bowling club, and when it was over, it was over. And we went home, exhausted and drained and cried out.
A fitting tribute for one hell of a good man.
I love you Dad, and I miss you.
I think you would have liked your funeral, I think we saw you off well.
Love Cath
xoxo
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