Another anniversary

 Yesterday was the fourth anniversary of my Dad’s death. It’s not a date I want to remember but weirdly the dates of both parent’s deaths are etched into my memory. It’s like my mind has carved a tombstone and popped it in a diarising filing cabinet. Whether I want to remember these dates or not they are there. This year I was determined not to be silly about it. Dad was one of those people that lots of people miss and not just on anniversaries. Why should I let the date ruin the day? I miss him every day and can still enjoy my life. Why should I let missing him every say spoil all the wonderful memories and great things he taught me?

I had decided that it was going to be a good day. 

The Long Suffering Husband and I walked the dog and watched Saturday Kitchen. It was joyous. Naga Munchetti and Charlie Stayt were being funny relaxed and cheeky and Yottam Ottolenghi was the guest chef, making vegetables look delicious.

“Let’s cook something new,” I suggested, “I like the look of that cheese thing or how about that celeriac dish?”

Like most people in lockdown 3, we do talk almost exclusively about what we are going to eat next. The LSH turned up his nose at the idea of a vegetable but liked the idea of cooking.

“I’ve got loads of cookbooks. There must be something new that we both like.”

Eventually we were firmly stuck into the Greek cookbooks. The long cooked meats, garlic soaked dips, olives, tart cheese, flatbreads and vegetables that taste of Summer was the way we decided to go. As we looked through the books our tastebud memories kicked in and we thought about Greek Island holidays.

The LSH went glassy eyed. I thought he was longing for the next trip away, where we’d find something else to talk about. I checked that he was OK.

“Yes, I mean no. Sorry. I was just thinking about your Dad.”

“It’s a good day for it,” I told him.

He hadn’t remembered the date. It was just that he had thought, “When this is all over we’ll go back to Greece all together.” Then he realised that there would never be another opportunity to jet ski, get into a sandcastle building competition, find the best restaurants, practise saying, ‘efharisto’ or drink several Metaxas with Norm ever again and it made his eyes leak. Missing loved people happens all the time. Maybe we shouldn’t limit ourselves to anniversary dates.

I’m constantly surprised for our human need to not only remember but to cling to hope that our loved ones are still somehow around in a more tangible way than by just living in our memories. People look for signs. 

The other day, I was walking the dog when I met a woman with a puppy. She asked my advice on dog training and as we were chatting a robin sat on a branch next to us, listening intently.

“Oh, hello Dad,” she said, “I knew you’d visit today.”

I didn’t intrude on her grief but wondered how many people that robin had been a sign for that day.

It’s impossible to resist looking for signs, even if, like me, your rational brain tells you the idea is stupid.

On the first anniversary of Dad’s death I saw a heart shaped cloud and decided it was a sign. When it happened on the second and third anniversaries I was convinced. Who am I kidding? I wasn’t convinced that Dad was there sending a spiritual message but I was convinced that I had looked for a sign.

This year, I was determined to resist this silliness. On my walk I looked for birds. There were lots of LBJs (as Dad called them). Lots of unidentifiable little brown jobs but no robins. There were birds I could hear but not see and I spent a long time looking up into trees. It was the wrong kind of day for clouds that make shapes. They were all too whispy. 

“Ha! There you go, Dad, there’s no way I’m going to find a sign today. It’s just another day.”

As I walked up the hill past where Mum and Dad lived I heard a bird trilling a descending chromatic scale. I looked up to see if I could find out what it was and I noticed the sky.

 

No. That’s definitely not a heart. Surely not. Resist the silliness.