All at once you are looking for your favourite recipe for cream of mushroom soup in a book that you cannot remember not being there and then, suddenly the wave of grief hits.
This books once belonged to your Dad, it's 80's images conjuring up memories of old houses and innocent days.
My stomach suddenly turned, my eyes suddenly filled and all I wanted was to close the pages and turn off the pain. Run away and forget.
Grief never fully leaves you. You smile through your days and suddenly sadness comes and it hurts.
September 18th kills me.
Fourteen years ago I watched my Dad die of a heart attack. Literally in front of me, noisy ambulances, defibrillators and speeding hospital beds in the A&E with doctors sitting on my Dad trying to bring his body back to life. It didn't work. Being sent to the room I knew was the 'death' room and it was the room where they came and declared the obvious.
I try not to dwell, try not to feel the awful heart wrenching pain of him dying, of never knowing my boys and then in my kitchen it hits me so hard I could fall over and roll into a ball and weep. Never wanting to feel anything but this pain that brings him back to me.
Life goes on. You bake bread to go with the soup that made you think of him and try not to think too much.