My father
My father was
a gentle man
a giver
a breakfast maker
a fast hiker
and an even faster reader
a book lover, reviewer and collector
a jazz nut
a plunger of many coffees
and a pourer of many many drinks
a lamb chop chomper
a painter of water colours
a rugby supporter
a mentor to many architects
a leader at work
a father
a husband
a brother
a son
He wrote his life with beautiful hand writing,
and with masterful brush strokes,
and with steady lines on the plans he drew,
and with the love and acceptance
of all of those he shared his life with.
My father passed away 16 years ago to the day.
A day before what would been his 70th New Year’s Birthday.
I had recently moved to New Zealand with my young family, and in the year before my father’s passing I returned to South Africa twice to see him as he battled the cancer that silenced his voice and ultimately colonised his body.
On the first trip back during the 42 hour trip back to Durban from Whakatane NZ, I remember wondering if I was going to make it back to see him in time.
To be able to just be there with him.
And hold his hand.
And thankfully I did, and was able to return again midyear with my young family so he could see his grandsons.
I remember too returning to see his body.
An empty vessel.
And the stories shared by those who attended his funeral.
So here’s to you Dad.
I’ll raise a glass, or two (or maybe even three) to you tonight on New Year’s Eve at midnight.
Love you
