Tuesday, 14 September 2010


As hearing is said to be the last sense to leave the dying so smell is the last to linger long after they are gone. I keep a piece of clothing that belonged to my father; it faintly smells of him. A warm, comforting smell and while I still can breathe him in, I can fool myself in to thinking he is here. On nights like these, when my baby boy is sleeping peacefully beside me, I wish most of all that my Father had waited to meet him. He would have loved his Grandson, his calm, sweet, smiling Grandson. Already I can see they share much of the same temperament. I try and think of ways I can bring Dad in to Sam’s life with photographs, his poetry and my memories but I know, deep down, I will always feel that Samuel has been robbed of the joy of knowing his Grandfather and this will always be a source of great sadness to me. Sometimes, in my most fanciful of moments, I like to believe that in those four days between death and birth, that perhaps some of Dad's shining spirit passed by and chose to settle in Sam.

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