Eleven years ago today, my husband’s father died.
He had been ill for many years so it was expected, though we wish the circumstances had been different.
Over the years, we got into some great debates on a variety of subjects, and I have some very fond memories of him.
Like him playing Father Christmas for the kids at the local charity fete, and me asking to have a little practice on his knee. As I was at my heaviest, he said it made more sense for me to wear the suit and he’d sit on my knee.
Like the gingerbread I cooked on his behalf, the singing tie, and our day in Weymouth.
My last memory is Boxing Day, and us going into the hospice to visit. We’d been up on Christmas Eve and given him some small gifts, including his favourite chocolate and some thick woolly socks as he’d mentioned previously that his feet were cold, plus a miniature bottle of whiskey that we smuggled in.
He was smartly dressed (I never saw him untidy) and sitting in the lounge wearing his favourite cardigan, his woolly socks, and a big smile.
‘Look what I’ve got, ‘ he whispered, beckoning us over and pointing to his pocket.
Like a cheeky little boy being caught for having or doing something he shouldn’t, he showed us a miniature bottle of sherry he’d won in the raffle and had hidden it before the nursing staff took it away.
With an even bigger grin he said,
‘And they didn’t get my whiskey either! Ha!!’
We both miss him, but memories like this will never fade, so like my own Dad, he is always with us.