It's a year to the day since dad died. It's not been too stressful, low key in fact. Mother's mind has been kept off the anniversary by matters at hand and that, I think, is a good thing.
His death had been a while coming but looking back 12 months it amazed me, even though I had prepared for and maybe even rehearsed ahead of it, the event still packed the power to shock when it did arrive.
Now I look back fondly and without any of that pain. Except.
I can see him in my mind's eye and remember how he used to be and laugh, or curse, or cringe. But looking at photos of him I feel a sense of loss I don't get when simply thinking about him. He's no less real in my thoughts than he appears in the pages of a photo album, so it's not something I can even properly rationalise. It's harder to explain.
I'll go on looking, turning the pages, seeing the face and remembering the man with all his goodness and all his faults, no matter how sad the albums make me. You need all the tools at your disposal to keep memory alive and abandoning one simply because it illicits a response which surprises me and which, to be honest, I don't like would be wrong. It would be selfish to keep the albums permanently closed.
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