This day, two years ago, I woke up without my father.

He’d died shortly after midnight. He’d been hanging on, I’m sure, for the feast of the Sacred Heart. I’d never heard him mention Joyce, so I doubt it was Bloomsday, unless he wanted to be sure we’d never forget.

As if we would.

Or could.

We were with him when he took that last breath and left us.

I was angry at him for leaving.
I was happy for him that he was gone.
I was conflicted by equal measures of sadness and relief.

Death is a complex thing that brings with it a plethora of emotions, many unnamed, unowned.

Grief ebbs and flows, sometimes as gentle as a feather wafting to the floor, other times like a sledgehammer to the gut.

It has no respect for time or place or company. It follows its own agenda, seemingly delighting in catching you unaware.

Until you make peace with it.

But it takes time.

My third shipment of boxes arrived from Ireland recently. Mostly stuff my dad had made. Stools. Tables. And the Waterford crystal bowl he got when he retired. And a framed copy of page 16 of the Leinster Leader that marked the occasion.

I also have his uniform hat and gloves and the tricolor we were presented with at his funeral.

I have letters he wrote to my mam when they were courting. I have letters his aunt, the nun, wrote to him from America. I have the card he sent me during COVID, the one year I didn’t get home for Christmas.

I have his photo by my bed. Another in my office. I have the little armchair he made for me when I was two.

There are subtle reminders of him everywhere.

Not because I’m afraid I’ll forget, but because he’s still very much part of my life.

Boss is as much a part of my life now as he was when he was alive. Yes, it’s different. I can’t pick up the phone and call him. But I still talk to him. He’s still there. He’s still my dad.

Himself pulled out the BBQ yesterday. We were having company for dinner and needed an extra table on the terrace for the food. We used the one Boss had made for mam for the kitchen at home.

The reassurance it offered was palpable.

I am sure I’ll get to a stage when these things no longer embody the essence of the man, a time when I’m ready to let them go.

I say I have one move left in me. When and if that day comes, I’ll decide what to take and what to leave behind. Until then, I’m grateful to have the space to surround myself with tangible memories, the fruits of his labour.