The other day, I dreamt about walking into an old style English pub with a rock climbing wall at the back, a dog on a leash, and my father. It’s been 10 months since my father died. This was the first I had dreamt about him in this entire time, which is highly unusual.
A week before I returned to Singapore from Australia, Mum had to put the pug down.
The thing that haunts me, is how normal my father’s absence feels. Has felt from the beginning.
2013 was year where my desire to go walkabout with possessions in a bundle at the end of a stick – or a couple of bags in my case – came true. I’ve been on it for a year and a week today, but rather than some far flung locale, I’m writing this post from my childhood home. Home is something that seems to punctuate journeys though, so perhaps there is no better place.
My entire understanding of my father’s death at this point, rides on numbers. September 4 – the stage of cancer he was diagnosed with.