Laughter and tears at our toast to Dad

AS A funeral director for 25 years, I’ve looked after thousands of families when they were at their lowest. however, it is natural that, once the funeral is complete, those we’ve supported drift away and begin rebuilding their lives, facing their ‘firsts’ away from us. We’ve just had a first anniversary ourselves. My dad died on February 12, 2019. earlier that day, I’d taken Mum to see him, and stepped back to watch these two wonderful people, who mean everything to us and who had devoted their lives to one another over the best part of six decades, sit holding hands. As Mum got up to leave, she kissed dad, and he uttered the last words I ever heard him say. Mum simply said ‘I love you’, and he replied: ‘I love you, too.’ What a beautiful way to end a truly remarkable chapter. As my family and I began life without dad, we started tackling the many firsts that came our way; the first birthday, the first wedding anniversary, the first easter. The first summer when, rather than seeing maps strewn across the table (dad didn’t trust sat-navs) and plans of where to visit, we reflected on the previous summer when he drove to Scotland and back, and he and Mum spent 12 wonderful days there together. That is what we do when each of the firsts come around. We look around us and see what’s missing, but fill that void with wonderful memories and lots of chatter about how things would have been had he still been with us. As autumn turned to winter, we began to contemplate the most difficult of the firsts, Christmas, which was a time of year my father loved. Yes, there were plenty of tears, but there was laughter, too, as we looked back at Christmases past and the many silly things dad did — from wearing a musical hat that played Jingle Bells, to a pair of Yuletide boxers that he insisted on wearing over his trousers to cook Christmas dinner. On the first anniversary of his death, we gathered as a family, and at Mum’s request ate takeaway fried chicken, because that was the last meal dad enjoyed at his granddaughter’s birthday party. Glasses were raised at 6.15pm and we glanced to the heavens to acknowledge a very special man who meant so much to us all. But above all, we were showing him that, in spite of missing him every day, we’re OK, we’re getting on with life, which is something I know would matter to him very much.

Stephen Nimmo, Bournemouth, Dorset.