Dad arrived in the mail yesterday. Due to the extremely reductive process of cremation, this formerly handsome man of 90 kilograms could now fit into a small cardboard box. If it were possible, he would be laughing at the absurdity of his final journey. Such is the nature of modern-day death and the available option when circumstances dictate something less than a full-service funeral.
Cycling home from the Post Office, with dad in my backpack, I wondered if it was his entire body in that container, and if not, which part was it, and where was the rest? It mattered little. I had seen his lifeless body and kissed its cold forehead. As a non-believer in the fanciful concept of heaven, there were no prayers. I had simply whispered to him, ‘Wherever you are going, wait for me there. I will be along soon enough.’ And that, I do believe.
Now, what is left of him sits in my office, watching and waiting. I miss him already.
This good and honest man who had shared his Phantom comics and cold beer with me for decades had done the ultimate disappearing act – here one day and permanently gone the next. I had once cut hair from his manly chest and stuck it to my own bare one in the misguided belief that it would encourage growth, and I could be like him. I had sat on his broad shoulders as a young son and later we had kicked a football and played golf together. I had learned the meaning of integrity from him, the value of honesty and the benefits of hard work. He had left his own small mark on the world and a smudge of notoriety, but that was never his intention. Neither was being sucked dry by the voracious appetite of cancer that would transform him into a miniature of his once powerful horse-breaking self.
I remember very clearly the last time I saw him. I was going away for a couple of weeks and said, ‘I’ll see you soon.’ He lay there, all skin and bone, and nodded. But his watery eyes told the truth. I didn’t see it then, but I do now. He knew.
We never spoke much of living, or of dying, even when the end of one and the approach of the other were so close. I wish we had, but men have the ability to talk at length on matters no deeper than a puddle.
The cycle of life is inevitable and yet so difficult to accept. He never once told me he loved me, although I am sure he did. And now, with the harsh reality of death, I realise I had also failed in that admission, and it is time to make amends.
Love you, Dad.
LSA member Michael Taylor, from Number 41, is a full-time writer who specialises in biographies and memoirs.
In Michael’s words: “I don’t write boring. I do write creative non-fiction; lively, readable, entertaining stories. Because you don’t want your grandchildren to stop reading after three pages.
You want to gently hold your reader’s hand and take them on a journey – sometimes walking, sometimes running, sometimes stopping in shock or wonderment as you laugh, and cry, together.”
Visit the Queensland member page to find Michael’s details.
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