I have taken to walking the dog at dusk. It suits me not to have to nod and smile at other dog-walkers. The fading light and the moon’s faint beam and the chill in the air all fit my mood, as I walk and I think back over the past year.
Sometimes I call my sister, who, two hundred and fifty miles away, is often walking her dogs too. We walk and we talk, sometimes commenting on what our dogs are doing, sometimes commenting on the wildlife that we spot in the half light. Mostly, we catch up on the practicalities of on-going death-related duties: our parents’ house has still not sold and we are responsible for its upkeep. There is always some piece of financial business that must be discussed and we are still battling some institutions who refuse to show an ounce of human compassion when it comes to wrapping up a loved-one’s affairs.
And then there is Mum. And there is so much to say about her, that sometimes it is too much. And so we move on, invariably finding ourselves meandering along the path which leads inevitably to Dad.
‘Those last days were his Glory Days,’ my sister said on our last walk-and-talk session. ‘He was such a silent dad before he was diagnosed, but something happened to him once he went into hospital and he became extraordinary.’
He did. He rose to the challenge Death had set before him. He became a beacon to us: a shining example of how to live. And die.
We talk about how he was Mum’s SatNav through the tortuous paths of their life together. How he quietly stood beside her, a strong pillar next to Mum’s whirlwind nature. How he calmly navigated the storms of the early days of their marriage with no money, then on into parenthood, building a home, a career, caring for ailing elderly parents, becoming grandparents and succumbing to illness themselves. He rarely, if ever, lost his temper with us or Mum. In fact, his temper only became frayed in those fraught last three years. And who can blame him for that?
We go over and over these things. We talk about how we miss him too, how we hear his voice in our heads, how the image that we carry of him is not that of a frail and sickening old man, but of a vigorous, smiling, healthy father. We sometimes cry (at which point I am doubly thankful for the failing daylight).
‘He had to go when he did, you know,’ my sister often says. ‘He and Mum couldn’t have survived together much longer.’
I know she is right. I have read the heartbreaking journals which Dad kept during the last years when Mum’s mental health went into rapid free-fall. He was keeping it all hidden – all the stress, the worry, the panic over how best to help and care for Mum. Mum is safe now, well cared-for and not left sitting in a chair in the dark with no food in the fridge. And Dad is at peace.
I reach the summit of my walk and look out over the valley. This is where I often came to ring Dad when he was in hospital. Sometimes I come here and talk to him still.
The moon is bright, the rooks are flying home, tiny pipistrelle bats appear from the filigree trees and circle above me. The tawny owls begin their evening conversation and the last light disappears from the sky.
I say goodbye to my sister and loop back on to the path which takes me home. A whole year has almost passed with no Dad in it. And yet, for as long as my sister and I continue to walk and talk about him, something of him remains.