It took me thirteen years to properly grieve for my father. He died suddenly and quite young, aged only fifty-eight.
He was a loving dad and today we, his children, still call him “the Sage” because we considered him so wise in his dealings with us and others. He had the ability to listen to others joys and sorrows or just general conversation without interruption and for me, he was the best listener after God.
Whenever I spoke of him to anyone during those thirteen years, I was in floods of tears until a counsellor said to me, “why don’t you write to him. Tell him all that he was to you. What you loved and didn’t love about him, everything that you were not able to tell him while he was alive.”
Months went by and then on the day after Christmas which some of you might know as Boxing Day, I sat down to write to him and between tears and laughter I poured out my heart to him. From that day since I haven’t cried whenever I talk about him. Although he’s been gone over thirty years ago, I still miss him but the memories that remain are happy ones.