My dad was always ‘Dad’
except on days when I
loved him more than on
the ordinary days – like the
days we’d spin the old
Seagull engine into life and
he’d let me pilot our little
boat around the headland
to Porthdinllaen, orange
fishing line, hoping for the
distinctive tug of mackerel.He died eight years ago –
but I found an old Ilford
photograph the other day
and spontaneously said
aloud, ‘my Daddy’ …
.
At our substation station where there is little light and only brief glimpses of reality, where there’s litter of promises unkept. Perhaps the only way one can truly see?