The 6th Mar 2010 WriteOnSite Winning Entry
It's my turn this Saturday to sit with Dad.
I push open the lounge door, hit by a heat you could cook pizzas by.
Even though he's been ill for months, I'm speared with shock every time I see him sitting, so still, in the amrchair by the patio doors, his knife thin knees prodding at the pale blue material of his pyjama trousers. His hair - once Vitapointe slick - sticks up like grey, pine needles. Staring at a television screen he's long forgotten how to watch, he sits ram rod straight.
"Hello, Dad," I say, walking across the room with an enthusiasm I no longer feel.
I bend to kiss his dry cheek but there isn't a flicker of interest for me, the daughter who once claimed the prize of being his favourite.
A mental scrap book of memories flick through my mind. Planting baby lettuce plants in the tomatoey-smelling greenhouse; Dad slipping me extra pennies to play the arcade's fruit machines, long after my own money had run out; Dad and me watching television, as I sat at his feet and he stroked my hair like I was his contented Persian.
I push the bitter lemon memories out of my mind, as unwelcome as a Big Issue seller.
They remind me of the gap between the Dad I had and the man who has been left to us after the last stroke.
"What are you watching?" The smile's so tight on my face I could have had Botox.
I can't answer, his irritated eyes shout. Hazel and wise, they speak with sadness. Tell me this isn't for long. That darkness waits. That all that should have been achieved, hasn't. That this thin wisp of life is as good as it gets.
I look back and hope my eyes tell him that the pain of his slow passing is eating at my heart like a cancer.
But there's the gap again - between what I want to say and what I can.
"Cheer him up," was Mum's impossible request.
Playing the role of jollying-along-daughter, while the part of my heart shattering is being acted behind the scenes.
My hero, my protector, sits in a chair, waiting for an end that is British-Rail-slow to arrive.
I reach for the remote and flick between the channels, as impatient as a woman dying for the toilet.
"...and they're coming up on the outside. Delta Dream is over the last hurdle ...."
All at once his head cranes towards the screen.
"Of course. The racing! You loved .... love the racing."
Slowly Dad points as they show the next race card.
"Mack the Rack. Ten to one. No chance," I laugh and he smiles, showing a top plate that no longer fits and bathing me in the radiance of a dozen summers.
I find the newspaper and mark his selections, just as he had on so many Saturday afternoons when Mum was out shopping.
The horses circle as proud as beauty queens, before being loaded into the stalls. The gun fires, hooves thunder and mud sprays.
As we watch I feel the squeeze of his hand as the horses leap and fall in a three minute drama.
"...and at the halfway mark, it's Diver Dan with Mack the Rack a long way back."
"See!" I say to Dad.
"... and at the next jump Diver Dan is ... oh no, he's a faller."
The light in Dad's eyes says, Told You.
I laugh and watch as three horses fly past the winning post, the commentator only slightly less excited than the thunderous crowd.
"And in first place - it's Diver Dan followed by Mack the Rack."
"Second - not bad. You haven't lost your touch."
And his hazel eyes look at me and say, No, I'm still your Dad.
And for one last afternoon, the gap no longer seems so wide ...
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.