I don't know if I miss my dad. We weren't close, I'm not close to any of my family or anyone outside of it. We didn't go to the footie together, we didn't go to the pub, we wouldn't be found joking in a corner of family parties, you won't find photos of us fishing, dressed up, playing on the beach, working on the car together.
We shared very few interests, old BBC comedy like Porridge and Morecombe and Wise, is probably the only thing. He liked gardening, birdwatching and nature, football (he nearly turned professional in 1960) and having a nap (OK, perhaps that we have in common now.)
He liked my cooking, my love of the Jets, Metallica, Iron Maiden and Marillion, he appreciated my love of Sherlock Holmes, comics, sci-fi and fantasy, all things he couldn't get his head around, and I did not expect or encourage him to.
I watched him die, I saw the life leave him and while tears well up in my eyes now, I didn't cry or scream or shout. Not that I wasn't sad or distressed, I just didn't. I knew that would be the last time I would see him or hear him; pleading to the nurse to take away the pain as his skin turned a colour I cannot describe even now.
It's Father's Day and social media is full of messages and posts about dads, those present and absent, those biological and adopted in some fashion, those close connected and estranged. They say celebrate your time with your father, whether he was good or bad. I don't relate to these posts, I'm not a dad and still don't know if I miss my dad or if I ever will, especially when I see such references. I don't find it hard or depressing, I don't know what I feel. But never loss.
I might not have gained anything but I've not lost anything. I wasn't close to my father, I don't miss him everyday, like I'm supposed to, and I don't think I've lost anything. I've only gained from knowing him.
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