Dad died 8 May 2011. A date and time for which no one could predict. I remember our last conversations, normal, happy, without concern or alarm. Two days later, I remember hearing his voice through an oxygen mask as he was being carried to an ambulance.

I remember seeing him sedated, his body connected, wired and tubed. His skin cold, his body dependent on machines. He knew it was serious, he knew this could be it, his last moments with us. I remember dad in intensive care, he looked at me as though he needed one last look, a final memory.

Every day we waited, hanging on every call from the hospital. Then his heart stopped… and it stopped again… and then his body died.

When dad died it created a void. When you dig a hole there is at least a space to be filled. But a void goes beyond emptiness, it’s an irreversible feeling of loss. Perpetual loneliness comes close.

On Father’s Day I was laying flowers on dad’s grave, There he was, in a coffin, just ten feet down, with pictures of me, mum and Emilio. I watched as other families visited their dad and I realised I had never truly imagined that day. And it wasn’t just Father’s Day; anniversaries, birthdays and Christmases will never be the same. A sad truth, that in times of celebration, there’s always someone crippled by the hand of grief.

A few days after dad’s death, mum was admitted to hospital with heart failure. Coming home from the hospital, walking into the family home, empty for the first time. A week later, mum returned home; I was spared the pain of loneliness yet living with a void in my midst.

They say, “life goes on”, but the unwilling are slow. Dad’s belongings must be moved or sold, used or treasured. As days go by, dad enters my dreams, now the only place to be. And I awake to meet the void and I reflect on past times, I must follow his example; to be as giving and as endlessly forgiving, to be as kind and as humble.

Dad you have touched my heart and I love you, I miss you, always.