Grief for a 7 year old , a memoir of my Dad’s last days

They were tall, I was small. An ambulance at the gate , a wheelchair at the front door. He said his goodbyes.

Standing in the kitchen. Oatmeal wallpaper blending into cold radiators. April showers with a chill you could touch.

I don’t remember the words, rather I know the story my Uncle told.

“your Daddy has died”

Big brother to my right, David on his honkers at eye level. Earth shifting, life changing words that my brain doesn’t allow me to cling to.

My only response “Can I go to School now?”

The days that followed seen long skirts and black attire. Gifts of skipping ropes and reading books. I learned to entertain the passing guests.

Soup made in over sized pots on Mums small stove. Tissues, tears and a haze of sadness. Cousins with Roxette hair cuts.

Furniture moved to make space for his body in the ‘front room’.

The haze and slow never lifted, it never left.

Prince our dog barked constantly. That canine instinct. He knew of his loss.

Expelled to the ‘red shed’ at the top of the field in an attempt to quiet the noise, his howl remained a tale of death and loneliness.

Activity was rife and I took my chance. Creeping into the ‘front room’ to see my Daddy. I crawled under the coffin stand, “yep, I fit.”

A 7 year old standing in time, curtains touching, dim lights on. Staring at his white face and tucked in arms. No words exchanged. No hugs offered.

I backed out, into the tall people where soup spoons and barking dogs await. No one noticed, no one flinched.

The weight of her grief started here.