Things we lost in the "fire"...

Things we lost in the fire. 

It’s how I describe “the event” of losing my father to Covid in my head.

There was a “fire” in our house. It began to climb the walls of all the rooms. We knew, there was no putting it out, while we watched it eat everything. Everything we loved.  But we still held hope.

It was time to go, to get out. We ran, out the door and turned in horror, in disbelief, checking to make sure everyone was Ok. Was everyone Ok and accounted for?

But my dad who ordinarily would have been the man who would have been charging out, carrying his children out under both arms and on his back, didn’t come out.  The man who before, had saved us from so many things, didn’t come out. 

He stayed behind, and was lost.

“Lost”.

Taken.

A precautionary tale. 

Easter is coming up.

I know you are tired. Tired of it all.  You want to hug, and gather and be with everyone close to you.

No judgement here.

Your choices and the repercussions will be your own. 

But I ask that you be careful. Look out for each other and for yourselves, simply because those are repercussions I carry daily now and they are devastatingly painful I can assure you.

If you’re going to be hugging your 98 year old great granny.  Or Young brother for that matter… if you’re going to gather in a big group.  Ask yourself, was everyone in that room as safe as they could have been.

If you are so Covid fatigued though, or just nonchalant, and carry on without a care to anyone else around you. All I ask is that you read the words I CHOKED out at my fathers memorial 2 weeks ago, when we put his ashes into the sea to wash him away, forever.  And then <insert your loved ones name there>.  See how you feel… maybe it makes you stop, just for a few minutes.

<Dad>,

I’ve sat for days now, unable to write anything. Knowing I should but being unable to. It’s completely unnatural to me. I don’t want to say these things. I don’t want to be here having to say these things because this should have never been your road. I want to be sitting across a table with you, drinking a brandy. Poured by you. A 2 finger brandy.

So instead, I have poured MYSELF a big brandy, and I’m going to put my big girl panties on and say some things.

They say you die twice. Once when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the very last time.

If this were true, then you are sure to be with us until your children’s last breath. Because we will never stop thinking of you. Or talking about you.

And I know in my heart that I will always refer to you as “my dad IS” and never “my dad WAS”. Because I know you continue to parent me, just not with a visible eye roll or shake of your head. Your voice is just a bit softer now, in my ear, in my mind, but steering me nonetheless.

“Sweetie – stop being so emotional!” You are literally in my ear right now!

Yoh, we fought. We fought you and I.  All the time. I suspect it was because I am my Fathers daughter. 

Too much alike.

But I loved you still.  From when I was a little girl until the day I rubbed your chest and said goodbye. 

How could I not. You, were Allan Chandler.

A force.

My safe place.

And I don’t feel safe anymore dad.  I don’t think I will ever again.

And you can whisper in my ear all you want, to stop crying… that there is no use being depressed about all of this now.  But I will not.

I will cry.  I will hurt, and I will miss you till the day I die, because that is what you meant to me.

And I will love you always.

And God I hope, wherever you are, that you can have a brandy with me now. Raise your glass, and then tell everyone your favourite story of me, about how when I was little, you sent me to my room because I wasn’t eating my vegetables, only to come in to my room 2 weeks later, and those very vegetables were growing out of my drawer – full plants. It was your absolute favourite story to tell.

Hiding of my life maaaaaan.

And I hope it makes you smile.

I wish I could hear you tell it one more time.