A Year That Wouldn't Wait

For you, Dad.

Some words need to sit quietly before they find their way into the world.

I wrote this on the first anniversary of Dad's death, three months ago now. Looking back, I don't think I could have shared it then.

Today feels like... a day I could.

‘A year that wouldn’t wait’

Three hundred and sixty-five sunsets,  
midnights and sunrises  
that didn’t ask permission  
to keep coming.  

I know I’ll miss you  
a million times tomorrow,  
but I missed you today,
and it took the wind from my sails.  

It came all of a sudden.  
A shard between breaths,
like, for a moment, I forgot,  
then remembered all over again,  
and the pain flooded back.  

I missed you today.  
I miss the spaces  
where your voice used to live.  
I wear your sky blue fleece for comfort.
Today it smells less like you.  

It’s a strange thing… time,  
relentless,  
chasing after all of us.  
It feels like only yesterday  
I could still pick up the phone  
and there you'd be.  

How can I bear it?
How can it be a year?  

I drive, but I’m not really there,  
the road stretches out, unreal,  
like I could snap out of a trance
and find you beside me.  

Then your song comes on,
“If I Can Dream,” 
Elvis,
and suddenly the world sharpens:  
too bright,  
too loud,  
too empty without you.  

I missed you today.  
God, I miss you a lot.  

You named me Claire, 
or else I’d have been Bethen! 

You gave me the colour of your eyes,  

and that stubborn habit
of searching every cloud
for its silver lining.

I wish I could pull you back down here,  
borrow you from wherever you are,  
just long enough  
to smell the Old Spice,  
hear your voice,  
see your smile…

just a glimpse,  
a whiff,  
a note.  

I’m scared, 
scared I’ll forget the sound,  
how it held my name,  
how it chuckled
in the only way you could.  

I feel it sometimes,   
your hand at my back,  
gentle, steady,  
pushing me forward.  

I don’t want to leave you behind.  

Three hundred and sixty-five sunsets,  
midnights and sunrises  
that didn’t ask permission  
to keep coming.  

God,
I missed you today.
Tomorrow
won't ask permission either.

Claire X