REMEMBERING...
On Sunday we went down to Geelong to visit my step-mum K and to have a 'memorial' lunch to celebrate Dad. Sunday was one year since he died and she wanted to have some kind of celebration.
With my aunt and uncle (Dad's youngest sister and husband) and K's niece we went to one of Dad's favourite restaurants by the water. We enjoyed a lovely meal, watched the boats come and go, raised a glass to PJ and then went to visit the grave site.
I'm not a big one for visiting graves but it was fitting on this occasion. As K said, it is hard to believe it has been one year already.
In some ways it seems like a few months ago, especially when you ring their home phone and Dad answers. 'You have called Kildare, the home of Peter and Kate.' So surreal to hear his voice like that but comforting in a strange way as well.
I wrote a lot of poems when he was very ill. Those months when we all knew the end was very close. I wrote his eulogy, trying to describe Dad to a church full of people who didn't know him as us, his children did. I tried to capture him, quirks and all.
I am so glad he got to meet his great-granddaughter and knew he had a great-grandson on the way. He was so pleased...even hinting that Peter was a great name for either a boy or girl.
I still go to pick up the phone every now and then, thinking 'I'll give Dad a call.' So many things remind me of him.
My writing group gave me a Magnolia in his memory..it has flowered already.
Lush large flowers that the wind riffled then tore down.
Work gave me this amazing rose that has flowered for months...
Every now and then I realise a character I'm writing about has some of his traits. Whether they are an orchid aficionado or lover of a good port. I still see a white haired old man shuffling along and something will nag at me, I'll turn knowing it's not him but looking...just in case.
I don't think we ever forget those we love. We may forget aspects, like I have forgotten the sound of Mum's voice. We have photographs (not many, she hated photos of herself) to remember how she looked and I remember so many of her traits. Love of black jelly beans, loved cacti and succulents. Great reader of mysteries and crime, kept the Tattslotto ticket under the pyramid clock. Picked four leaf clovers, stuttered when angry or upset.
But there will be a song (Johnny Cash) or a perfume (Tweed), and a memory I thought long gone will surface. It's the same with Dad. I pick a cherry tomato and am back in his veg patch. Pick a lemon from our tree and see him there, at my side, picking some to take home.
And when we incorporate some of these memories in our work, whether poetry or story, then they are never lost.
Vicki
With my aunt and uncle (Dad's youngest sister and husband) and K's niece we went to one of Dad's favourite restaurants by the water. We enjoyed a lovely meal, watched the boats come and go, raised a glass to PJ and then went to visit the grave site.
I'm not a big one for visiting graves but it was fitting on this occasion. As K said, it is hard to believe it has been one year already.
In some ways it seems like a few months ago, especially when you ring their home phone and Dad answers. 'You have called Kildare, the home of Peter and Kate.' So surreal to hear his voice like that but comforting in a strange way as well.
I wrote a lot of poems when he was very ill. Those months when we all knew the end was very close. I wrote his eulogy, trying to describe Dad to a church full of people who didn't know him as us, his children did. I tried to capture him, quirks and all.
I am so glad he got to meet his great-granddaughter and knew he had a great-grandson on the way. He was so pleased...even hinting that Peter was a great name for either a boy or girl.
I still go to pick up the phone every now and then, thinking 'I'll give Dad a call.' So many things remind me of him.
My writing group gave me a Magnolia in his memory..it has flowered already.
Lush large flowers that the wind riffled then tore down.
Work gave me this amazing rose that has flowered for months...
Every now and then I realise a character I'm writing about has some of his traits. Whether they are an orchid aficionado or lover of a good port. I still see a white haired old man shuffling along and something will nag at me, I'll turn knowing it's not him but looking...just in case.
I don't think we ever forget those we love. We may forget aspects, like I have forgotten the sound of Mum's voice. We have photographs (not many, she hated photos of herself) to remember how she looked and I remember so many of her traits. Love of black jelly beans, loved cacti and succulents. Great reader of mysteries and crime, kept the Tattslotto ticket under the pyramid clock. Picked four leaf clovers, stuttered when angry or upset.
But there will be a song (Johnny Cash) or a perfume (Tweed), and a memory I thought long gone will surface. It's the same with Dad. I pick a cherry tomato and am back in his veg patch. Pick a lemon from our tree and see him there, at my side, picking some to take home.
And when we incorporate some of these memories in our work, whether poetry or story, then they are never lost.
Vicki
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