K.T. Davies

My Dad died on the 27^th of December. I can’t write anything witty or moving, I can’t spare the energy — I need it all just to get through. Inch by inch, I’m just fighting to get away from Ground Zero, to ride the wave, survive the aftershocks.

I know me, I know how hard I can fall and it seems every time I fall, I fall further, and it’s that much harder to get back up. Don’t mistake me; I’m what they call ‘a fighter’ I’ve had to be. One day you and I will sit down with Uncle Jack — we’ll swap war stories, compare scars, but for now take me at my word: no coward’s soul is mine. But the man who used to piggy-back me up to bed, who used to make me porridge for breakfast,without lumps, who shared his own war stories with me when I was older, and patient enough to listen, has gone. And it hurts. Dementia claimed him a fair few years ago, but I miss the man he was and mourn his passing.