And I don’t mean that in a morbid way like the Death Cab song

But whenever we arrive in a foreign city, no matter how late it is, or how jetlagged or weary or hungry or whiny we are, my dad always wants to recce the neighbourhood (or if that’s not possible, the hotel). 

The last time we were on holiday, after a long windy drive, you wanted to recce the neighbourhood for places to go for dinner. “Want to go and explore with me?” you asked (as you do when we arrive in every foreign city). I do, and most of the day’s light is gone. We’re crossing a bridge over the beginning of a lake. I’m walking behind you and it starts to snow.

And as this happens (and we marvel at the falling snowflakes that have come so unexpectedly), I realise how natural, how familiar this feels, and how it has always been this way - treading along behind and beside this man whom himself rarely has any idea of where we were going, and yet never feeling any less than completely safe. 

It made me think of how blessed we are to have you, to have someone we’d follow (literally) into the dark. not without draggy feet and the occasional complaint, of course, but how many people in our lives can we say this of? And of that few I’m glad that you’ve always been one of them.


Posted 2 years ago
Tagged : #notes to my father#submissions#stories with my father