On the lapping backwater, in those lazy, golden days at the end of summer, when we gently sculled and chatted about nothing at all, I got to know you a little and I am glad. We couldn’t recover a lifetime of distance or heal all hurt, but we tried.
Maybe you were not the ideal father – but you were my father and, as the vicious family hounds gathered around at your funeral, I knew I would cling on tight to the few sunlit moments you left me.
Your ashes float beside me and sink oh so slowly down into the depths. Whenever I am here, you will be there, around me, beneath me – my failed father, who I so wanted to love.