As the 14th Father's Day since her dad passed away approaches, Sarah Gill navigates could-have-beens, the changing shape of grief and feelings that come up at this time of year.
Father’s Day, to me, is a lot like being single on Valentine’s Day. I’m not necessarily resentful of those celebrating the day with their dear old dad (no, really, I’m not), but the occasion is tainted with a dollop of begrudgery for their decidedly normal, somewhat everyday marking of the occasion.
It is, of course, a gentle, anodyne jealousy. I want what they have and it makes me revert to the conclusion that life really isn’t very fair. I want in on the fun of the festivities. I want to make my dad a card and a roast and maybe even get up early to walk through the back field and listen to the Dawn Chorus, but I can’t because he’s no longer with us and that seems like very unsportsmanlike conduct from the universe.
This year is my 14th Father’s Day since my dad passed away, and considering I was 14 at the time of his passing, it’s the kind of realisation that sticks in your throat and deepens your frown lines. That first loss was an introduction to a very specific kind of loneliness that never really went away. It’s like a chipped China plate or red wine spilled on a fluffy white carpet. A hollowing out in the chambers of your heart where memories or maybe just dreams and vague ideas bounce off the walls and echo about, making you feel queasy.
Losing a loved one, specifically losing a parent, is immensely difficult, at any age. But when you’re still a kid and not yet a fully formed person, it gives your grief this sharp edge of ambiguity. Yes, I obviously miss this person so much, everything about him, but I also miss what we both missed out on.
There are all these versions of us playing out in different timelines and they make my head spin with all the what-could-have-beens. It’s the most bizarre kind of butterfly effect, because I’m so happy in my life just as it is but I would take any new version of my current reality in an instant if it meant that he was at home sitting in the living room with my mam, eating his dinner with a newspaper folded up against his chest so no gravy gets on his shirt.
Losing a loved one, specifically losing a parent, is immensely difficult, at any age. But when you’re still a kid and not yet a fully formed person, it gives your grief this sharp edge of ambiguity.
There are big, huge things and meaningless nothings that I would love to tell him. I would like, for instance, to get his take on my life and my job and my hair and my outfit. I would like to listen to all of the music ever made with him, finally finish making our way through that old box set of Marilyn Monroe movies, maybe even show him TikTok and blow his mind completely.
I would like to be a grown-up in his company, talk about the state of the world and buy him a pint in a pub, treat him and my mother to a night away, help him rake up fallen leaves in the back garden. All those very simple and nice things people get to do all the time feel like the most exciting prospects in the world.
I would have loved if he was there to walk my sister down the aisle, then slip into the pew beside my mother, kiss her on the cheek and stay linking arms for the duration of the ceremony. I would love for them both to be happily retired and lounging around the countryside in the beautiful golden glow of a summer evening sunset.
Sometimes I dream that he’s just suddenly back, alive and in the living room, and not too fussed at all about the fact that we’ll have to explain his extremely inexplicable reappearance to everyone. Myself, my mother and my sister are momentarily stressed about that very onerous task but then we resolve to just rejoice in this glorious resurrection. It’s confusing when I wake up and realise it wasn’t real, but it’s never not nice to catch sight of him when I sleep.
I remember watching a film when I was a child, years before I had experienced any loss of my own, and a character said that they still thought of their loved one who had passed away every single day. I remember that struck me at the time as a huge undertaking, to remember to think of someone every day, without fail, without them even being around to remind you of their presence. But not a day has passed where my dad, Martin Gill, has not crossed my mind in one way or another.