Today it's the anniversary of my dad's death. I was 17 at the time, a difficult age to deal with grief and now 17 years later at the age of 34, this is a poignant day. After today I will have been alive longer without him than with him. It's a sad and strange realisation. I probably still think about my dad every single day and I don't find time makes that much difference to be honest.
He never got the chance to meet my little boy or most of his other grandchildren but I'm thankful for the time he had with two of them. He loved kids and I think my little boy would be besotted with him if he were here. Sadly it's not to be. But although he's not here, he lives on. In my memory. In the memories of everyone that knew him, that met him, that loved him. And he'll live on in my son too.
It's nice to know that my little boy is a quarter Indian and that is all from his grandfather. I hope one day I'll take him to the land his grandfather was born in, to see the culture my father grew up in. And he'll get to know the story about how he travelled over to England to study and met my mum. He'll learn that his grandad was humorous and sociable and had a good heart & he was always happiest when we went back to India. My dad was Hindu and a believer in reincarnation so maybe he is living on through someone or somewhere else or maybe not. All I know is that although he's gone from our world, his memory lives on in our minds and our hearts forever.