13/02/2026
“When Memory Flickers”
When I was small,
you were away working.
Not chasing dreams
just doing what fathers do
when love looks like overtime
and distance.
And when you came back
through the front door
tired, smiling, arms wide
I would pretend I didn’t know you.
I’d look at you blankly.
Hide behind the sofa.
Act like you were a stranger
who’d wandered into the wrong house.
I did it to punish you.
Because I missed you
and didn’t know how to say it.
You brought the best gifts back from America
special popcorn, sweet and salty and impossible to resist. chocolate and treats no one else here could get.
Treasures that made the distance
feel smaller than it was.
You threw me into the air
until I believed you could catch anything.
Once, you missed
and I landed in nettles!!!,
all sting and outrage and summer grass.
You scooped me up, half laughing, half horrified,
brushing my arms like you could undo the pain.
Even that feels precious now.
You taught me how to fish
how patience hums beneath the surface.
You taught me bird song,
how to stand still long enough
for the world to introduce itself.
You showed me trees by their leaves,
by their bark,
by the quiet way they hold the sky.
We walked the dogs for miles.
Long roads, muddy fields,
cold air turning our breath visible.
Side by side,
we talked about everything and nothing
my children, work, the state of the world,
my worries, your quiet advice.
Those walks felt endless.
Like there would always be
more time.
When my marriage broke down
and the walls of my life felt like they were collapsing,
you didn’t ask questions first.
You drove, you sailed
You arrived at my door.
You built the flat-pack furniture
piece by confusing piece,
instructions spread across the floor,
quietly turning loose boards
into something steady.
You have always shown love
in the things you do.
And now…
Today, you know me.
You say my name easily.
You ask about my day.
like you always have.
And I breathe.
But sometimes tomorrow comes
and something has shifted.
The doctor calls it Alzheimer’s disease
as if a word could explain
why recognition can vanish overnight.
Some times you look at me
with that searching expression,
kind but uncertain,
as though my face is on the tip of your memory
but won’t quite settle.
Today I am your child.
Tomorrow I might be
someone familiar but unnamed.
The next day,
you might know me again.
Love now lives
in the in-between.
So when you know me,
I treasure it.
I store it carefully
your voice saying my name,
your stories told the same way twice,
the warmth of your smile.
And when you don’t,
I do not disappear.
I tell you who I am.
Gently.
The way you once taught me
to listen for birds in the trees
patiently,
without anger at the silence.
Because whether you know me today
or lose me a little tomorrow,
you are still my dad,
who crossed oceans for work,
who taught me rivers and trees,
who walked beside me for miles,
who showed up when my life fell apart
with patience, timber, and quiet strength.
If your memory flickers,
I will be the steady thing.
And even if one day
you cannot find my name at all
I will still know
I am yours
I love you Dad x