The things I never said
You used to call me Curly, I hated it.
Now I miss it, no one calls me Curly any more.
I remember you always had the same hair, a remnant from your military days, as were the neat as a pin beds which were impossible to climb in to.
The smell of Bell’s and Teacher’s whisky always make me smile, those and Old Spice remind me of you.
When I hear the click clack of smart shoes, I sometimes look around for you.
You’re never there.
I’ve not watched Life of Brian for a long time, it’s just not as funny without you watching it too.
I still don’t know the words to “I’m a lumberjack…”, we never did get round to watching that episode.
Sometimes, when I’m on my own, I’ll listen to The Wind. And I’ll have a good cry and wish my daddy was still here.
I miss your cream cable knit sweater, it was like a hug I could wear all day.
I wish we had talked more; those long nights when neither of us could sleep and we’d chat about life were too few.
I wish I remembered more of what you said.
I still love coffee, thank you for passing that on to me.
I hate that my boys will never get to sit on your knee and feel the same comfort I did when I needed the monsters scared away.
I wish I’d known that afternoon, just before Christmas that it would be the last time I saw you, I would have told you I loved you, and I was proud to call myself your daughter.