Tell them you love them...

When I was a kid, like so many other kids, my dad taught me to ride a bike in the garden. I remember it was sunny, warm, but not so warm he was able to take off his cardigan, mind you, I don't ever remember him taking off his cardigan.

He was laughing, I remember that.

I can feel his hand on my back right now, all these years later, sitting in my office with the rain tapping on my window, and my keyboard and coffee pooled in the light from my lamp.

I remember he was laughing, but I don’t remember what it sounded like.

I’ve forgotten the sound of my father’s laughter.

He died twenty five years ago.

I can’t remember the sound of his laughter, but I do remember the sound he made as his battered and tattered heart clenched in his chest just before it gave up the ghost. He cried out, head tilted forward, fists balled, eyes closed, at the edge of the end and not wanting to go.

I remember that.

I miss him.

I’ve an old car, a desperate for attention busted up old thing that needs more jobs than Detroit.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been under that car and wished my dad was there to pass me a wrench and give me advice. Even though I know he’d probably just tap me on the leg and tell me to get out of his way.

I’m not very good with cars.

My dad was.

Like a shadow creeping across the grass on a bright summer day, memories fade and move away.
As time passes, in the setting sun of a late afternoon, they become difficult to focus on, their edges soften, they blend into the darkness of the coming night.

Then they are gone, and all you have is memories, of your already vague memories.

My dad didn’t like having his picture taken, he’d frown and quietly shuffle out of shot and nobody would notice he wasn’t there until it was too late.

When he was dead.

I’ve the same frown and shuffle, but I haven’t got kids to miss me when I’m gone.

So I guess it doesn’t matter.

They’ll be nobody to look at the pictures I’m not in.

It isn’t just me though.

My mother once told me she could remember the way the mattress tilted towards where my father had once slept. She said every night his side of the bed was empty she could imagine that tilt, take comfort from it, every night he was there, even though he hadn't been for oh so long she couldn’t bear to count the years.

He wasn’t there, but the weight of him was.

I feel that weight sometimes.

Heavier than his hand.

A weight of expectation, the weight of his hopes, the dreams he never got to have.

Heavier than his hand.

I want to make a ghost proud, I want to show a ghost what I’ve done, what I can do, and I can’t.

It’s too late.

Take a look around the room you are in right now.

Go on, I’ll wait.

Was there someone you love, someone you like? Was there a pc, a phone, a chance to reach out?

A chance to reach out?

Don’t waste it, take it, shuffle into the photo, smile, laugh, make memories that last and linger a moment, stare at them until they look up.

Tell them you love them.

They’ll remember you did.

Say that you’re proud.

Say that you’re happy.

Say it again.

Say “I love you.”
Before it is too late.

Tony Schumacher