I went to visit my dad today. I brought him roses from his garden. I think he’d have liked that.

We didn’t talk much.

He didn’t have much to say.

But I get that.

There’s a big reunion going on up there.

Bríd, the last of his siblings, joined them Sunday.

I’m sure they have a lot of catching up to do.

It was a year ago today that Boss died.

Three hundred sixty-five days have passed.

Three hundred sixty-five days without my dad.

I still find it difficult to talk about him without being swallowed by the emptiness.

I didn’t get the chance to grieve for him in the way I’d have liked to.

With my mam.

Remembering.

Her filling in the many blanks.

Now, there’s no one left to ask.

They’ve all gone.

All nine of them.

We’re the vanguard now. Me and my cousins. On his side of the family. We’re the elders. The baton has been passed.

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready to be all grown up.

I’m not ready to be cut loose.

I’m not ready not to have my parents to turn to.

I can hear Boss telling me that it’s life.

That I need to get on with it.

That they’re fine.

And that I will be, too.

But I’m not ready.

Not yet.

I will be. But not yet.

Happy Fathers Day, Boss.

With love. And thanks.