I knew it was bound to happen. But when it did I wasn’t prepared.
I saw my Dad today. Yes, it’s been nearly six months since he died, but there he was standing on the pavement at Gordon. I’d just emerged from another specialist, mulling over the crappy year I’ve had, when I saw him about 25m ahead.
It took my breath away, made my heart pound right up into my ears. My eyes brimmed. I froze. It was him. It was Dad.
My brain knew it wasn’t him, logic defied it. But for just one split second the last six months were erased and everything was back to how it should be. There he was in his blue jumper, his beige pants, same height, same build, same stance, standing there, waiting to pick me up and share my news as he normally would.
Except it wasn’t him. It was someone else. As I approached, a woman joined him, and as I passed he looked at me with the same piercing blue eyes of my Dad.
But they weren’t his.
It hurt all over again.