My dad died when I was six. Well, six and a half; I was big on halves then. Anyway, he died. And whether as a result of too much TV or an already over-active imagination, I used to “see” him sometimes. Always at night. Always in dim-lit rooms. He would just stand there, half-smiling; male Mona Lisa. And I would stare with eyes saucer-wide and tiny heart swollen and pounding furiously.
I don’t know how the mini obsession started, but start it did. I was suddenly convinced that he hadn’t just gone, convinced that I was more special to him than everyone else. Convinced that there was a hidden love letter from him, some kind of message in a bottle, if only I’d be smart enough to figure out where. Continue reading