This might be your last night at home

I came across this the other day, tucked away in a notebook:

Sitting across from you tonight, all those other times flit by … watching political debates with you; documentaries about the great composers; the New Year’s day concert from Vienna, which I hated until I hit middle age! And tonight, especially, watching All Creatures Great and Small, I remember youth and possibilities and Sunday evenings with another cast of characters and the car splashing through water as the credits rolled.

I think of all the nights in this house where I grew up, Dad. One of my earliest memories is you carrying me up the stairs and we’re counting them in German … eins, zwei, drei und so weiter … and I’m five years old.

Where did that time go?

So many years spent away, living my life, but always returning to you two, Mum and Dad, and the hills of home.

And now, three years here, you’re surprised every morning when you see me Dad, and your face fills with joy:

‘How long are you back for, this time?’ you ask.

Tonight, you were on particularly good form, so happy to be here with us … your ‘girls!’

I tucked you up in bed and felt so protective, probably the way you felt about me when I was a child:

‘Night, night, love you Dad, never forget’.

‘Love you too, my daughter … you never forget,’ you replied.

You have always been such a benign, positive, life-affirming presence in my life, with your openness to others and to diverse cultures; with your dry sense of humour and your love of the absurd.

Tonight might be your last night here, Dad, in this house with its happy childhood memories, and it hurts.