Sadness, smiles and butterflies

There is never a good time to come  back to a blog when you are full up of sadness. Someone said that grief is like walking through  puddles in the rain – one minute your feet are dry and the next they are  not. 
It feels just like that for me -  in that very tricky  early phase of grief for my lovely Dad who died last week.  He  had been ill for a while and I made the mistake of kidding myself that, deep  down, I had prepared myself.
 But it turns out I had  not.

 I lost my mother when I was just 17  so it feels especially huge to lose Dad too. I keep looking at a chair and  thinking of him sitting in it. Or looking at the front door and realising that I  am never again going to open it to him.
 Tough.
 It’s difficult as a writer as, on  the one hand, you want so desperately to write about it…and on the other you
don’t. Not at all.
I guess I have finally sat down to face the blank screen because of that opening line. It didn't feel like the right time yesterday; it doesn't today and it won't tomorrow or next week. So it may as well be today.

I need also to say a big thank you to those who  have helped my family  this past  week or so and from here to promise to take things very slowly. One day  at a time – just as we did  when  we lost my mother all those years ago.

 In fact I was reminded of how this all goes by a little moment in the garden just  the day  before Dad’s funeral.  I was in the midst of the  mundane task of hanging out  washing when I noticed the most beautiful sight across the lawn. An array of  wallflowers in the corner was suddenly covered  in butterflies – a  mixture of Red Admirals and Cabbage Whites.  I have planted our little walled garden  to deliberately attract butterflies so this should be no surprise. We are often  blessed with their visits but I have genuinely never seen this many in one place  before. Dozens and dozens. Wings all a-flutter in the sunshine. Just stunning. So overwhelmed was I by  the spectacle  that  I forgot everything else and rushed to call my son to come and see. And then after he had gone upstairs, I  felt it on my face. 
A really, broad  smile.

 And I realised it was the first  proper, full-on  smile since I sat  with my father in the hospice. For just a second then, I felt guilty. And  I  remembered that it was just the same when I lost mum. Strange moments of guilt when you  take pleasure in things as you adjust to the loss. And so I made myself a cup of  strong coffee and I took a very deep breath.   For yes – this is how it goes. Sometimes  overwhelmingly sad. Sometimes not. It is good and natural and all of those we have loved and lost would want it so.

Dad would be pleased to see us smiling at butterflies.

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