Ghosts of Parents Past

About a year after my dad died, we were walking on the north Cornish cliffs above the beach where we had scattered his ashes 12 months before. Deep in thought, and awash with feelings of overwhelming grief, I allowed sadness to take over and watched through tears as my two daughters ran together across the rough grass.

They teased each other, chased, tagged, ran and laughed breathlessly. While I walked slowly behind, close enough to watch them and far enough so that they could not hear me talking to Dad and crying quietly.

A sea fret drifted up from the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean below, leaving a dew-like covering on our thick raincoats.

Chilly wet weather did not stop the two girls making the most of the fresh air, a world away from the hot, humid air they were used to.

Right in the middle of this scene. Prompted by nothing more than my grief-sodden thoughts, Dad spoke. He did not so much speak to me as through me. And prompted me to ask myself, under my breath, out of earshot, how I could be spending this moment mourning him, lost as he was to eternity, when I had two daughters right in front of me who would enjoy playing with their Dad, still very much alive.

I did not hear a voice from above, or experience anything close to spiritually except that it was Dad talking. It was exactly what he would have said, it was the right thing to say, and it was what I needed in that moment. He was telling me to control the grief, reminding me that as a father, while I was entitled to feel grief, I had to be able to descend into my feelings and rise back out when needed, to look after my family and to make the most of moments like the one on the cliff. 

It was a turning point, and I have not forgotten a single thing about the afternoon. I have not stopped grieving, but have never let grief take hold since.