A Blessing of Memory
It’s near my beloved late dad’s birthday, for some reason this memory cropped up. It was a strange feeling, a feeling of loss, and relief at his death. Much to some people’s chagrin, not grief. He’d been increasingly physically infirm for a decade or more and dementia was starting to fade him too. In short, his death was something I’d prepared for. But still, memories.
Near two years ago as I write, a day curtailed in chaos; in the midst of that chaos, a window. The space for an unexpected journey. Run out up the Porter to Mickleden Beck, then back over the top to Langsett. Once this was intimately familiar terrain, though I’d not been there for decades, not since dad’s health started failing.
A strangely pleasant feeling now, running through valley and woodland familiar from all those years ago. We’d move through here, whether slowly to visit with the valley and woodland themselves, or at pace to reach the high moors beyond. The land is changed, yet my feet still found all the same crossings and turnings. I’m changed, yet my mind still found all the memories. For a while, at odd places, I felt, if I turned just right, there’d be a big, gentle, wild haired man loping easily at my shoulder. But then, there he wasn’t; he couldn’t be. He’d been dead for seven years, near to the day.
A strange feeling that afternoon, I think I finally exchanged goodbyes with my dad.
He’s still a part of the person I am now; but at least for now, my memories are at rest. And yes, his memory is a blessing.
