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Sunday Times - - LIFE -

ND so real life goes on. But my dad is with me al­ways. I have some of his old span­ners and screw­drivers from the work­shop, and I know that my fin­gers are touch­ing his as I tighten a bolt or undo a crooked screw.

I don’t lit­er­ally hear his voice, but I know what he would say, and I know how pleased he would be to see me work­ing with his tools. His pres­ence is very in­tensely with me then. I con­sciously open up to that in­ner re­al­ity and I love him more deeply than I had ever imag­ined pos­si­ble.

I can­not change the fact that he is gone, and sad­ness of­ten wells up in­side me, but I know that this love for him and his pres­ence in my life now is more than nos­tal­gia, it is an on­go­ing, lived ex­pe­ri­ence of joy.

The other night I woke gen­tly in the cool, silent dark­ness of a moon­less night. As I lay there I re­mem­bered how it had been, and felt, too, the empti­ness of how it could never be again.

“Please think of me some­times when I’m gone,” he whis­pered to me in the last hours of his weak­en­ing, painracked days.

Dad, you are with me ev­ery day, and so too, in the en­chanted night when I am wo­ken from sleep to my mem­o­ries of love and won­der. LS www.hamil­ton­wende.com

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