LACK (Five Minute Friday)

That cold empty ache, like I couldn’t catch my breath even though I was breathing normally, filled my chest, spreading into my head and stomach.

The severity seemed to come out of nowhere, out of proportion. I was on the last half mile to work, thinking about writing a response to an old poem as I waited for the last set of lights to change, when my calm logic and hopeful thoughts were washed away and replaced with this void, this ache.

And I felt again the awfulness of the loss of my dad.

I just longed for him to be here still.

When my mum died, for a long time I knew exactly how long it had been, down to the week; once I even counted the number of days and hours since her passing. But with my dad it was different, timescale vaguer, as if I had become slightly immunised against grief.

So I was caught unawares by this feeling.

I just wanted him here again. I wanted his smile to twinkle at me in some shared mischief. I wanted the bristle of his moustache as he kissed me. I wanted to knock on his door and hear one of his welcoming catchphrases. I wanted to climb on his lap, lean my head on his shoulder, and feel his strong arms protecting me from the overwhelming world outside and in.

Most of all, I felt the sheer lack of him.

That’s not the end of the story, not a complete a picture of my life or even my day, I know. I could tell you of the Heavenly Father who is always present to me, who my earthly one pointed me towards. I could tell you of the wonderful others in my life who echo my dad so I am never without that manly love.

But for those few minutes, as the lights changed to green and I drove up the hill to the car park, continued through the barrier to my spot, until I stepped out of my car to start my working day, for those few minutes, I just missed him.

(Linking up to the weekly inspiration and shared writing @


6 thoughts on “LACK (Five Minute Friday)

  1. Heartachingly lovely.

    I don’t know if this will help, but it’s for you. Written now, just for here.

    “Peter’s Lament”

    They say, “Oh, he’s gone ahead”
    but all we see is that he’s gone;
    the joys we shared are lying dead
    and life must still go on.
    I wish I could freeze yesterday
    when he was by my side
    to run and laugh and sing and play
    and then, mischieviously, hide.
    He’s hidden in the twist of now,
    and I’m in a desperate land
    not knowing either why or how
    I can still find strength to stand.
    I’ve GOT to remember what He taught,
    and find the faith for which He fought.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Oh wow, Andrew, I am touched and honoured by that. And I particularly love that phrase ‘hidden in the twist of now’. Thank you x

      Liked by 1 person

  2. I have always been blessed by and enjoyed your words. You are living in a season that I cannot relate too, yet I felt every bit of it in your words. Thank you for sharing so openly and intimately. I must say I am a bit jealous of your having such a wonderful father. I was caught from the twinkle in his eye. Have a wonderful week. Visiting from FMF way on down there. 🙂


    • Thank you so much Kelly. I was very blessed in my dad, whose cheeky twinkle still won through even when dementia took such a hold on him. Bless you too x


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