Feb 2018
I never knew the wall of silence was you protecting us from what you went through
I never knew you not wanting to help me with my homework was your inability to read and write
I didn’t know the drink was your way of sounding out the voices
I didn’t know your prejudice was a result of you quitting school at thirteen and having to provide for your brothers and sisters
You never said much, faded into the sofa you slept on for your last fifteen years
I only realised after, that your odd comical moments were your way of saying sorry for being serious all the time
We called you the quiet man, it wasn’t so quiet up there, was it, Dad?
I now know it wasn’t me, us and them
And I now understand your rage whenever anyone had the nerve to use the word ******* around you and the way your body would shudder and catapult you into your mute state
Your automatic drill sergeant bellow that time I accidentally fell down the stairs
The odd tenner you’d slide into my hand on the quiet for pocket money when I knew that was the only money you had in the world
That pained look you had in your face at us judging you and you not being able to articulate the reason why you would be violent as you didn’t know why
Your gripe with the neighbours that consumed you, that made you want to do unspeakable things
Your feelings of loneliness, hopelessness, self loathing and misunderstandings in a home full of life, laughter and growth that you were unable to get involved in and embrace
I wasn’t there for you, the last few weeks, even when you were in hospital, I put my lust, my education, me first
I am just so grateful that my intuition kicked in on your last day here, I just knew I had to get that bus to see you
We didn’t speak for four hours, not a word passed but I listened to you take your last breaths and tell the dog “get down, I haven’t got it in me”
You left your last mark in the brushstrokes of paint on the walls in the back garden
Brushstrokes which were wavy, imperfect, rough around the edges but beautiful. Just like you, Dad
I never knew you not wanting to help me with my homework was your inability to read and write
I didn’t know the drink was your way of sounding out the voices
I didn’t know your prejudice was a result of you quitting school at thirteen and having to provide for your brothers and sisters
You never said much, faded into the sofa you slept on for your last fifteen years
I only realised after, that your odd comical moments were your way of saying sorry for being serious all the time
We called you the quiet man, it wasn’t so quiet up there, was it, Dad?
I now know it wasn’t me, us and them
And I now understand your rage whenever anyone had the nerve to use the word ******* around you and the way your body would shudder and catapult you into your mute state
Your automatic drill sergeant bellow that time I accidentally fell down the stairs
The odd tenner you’d slide into my hand on the quiet for pocket money when I knew that was the only money you had in the world
That pained look you had in your face at us judging you and you not being able to articulate the reason why you would be violent as you didn’t know why
Your gripe with the neighbours that consumed you, that made you want to do unspeakable things
Your feelings of loneliness, hopelessness, self loathing and misunderstandings in a home full of life, laughter and growth that you were unable to get involved in and embrace
I wasn’t there for you, the last few weeks, even when you were in hospital, I put my lust, my education, me first
I am just so grateful that my intuition kicked in on your last day here, I just knew I had to get that bus to see you
We didn’t speak for four hours, not a word passed but I listened to you take your last breaths and tell the dog “get down, I haven’t got it in me”
You left your last mark in the brushstrokes of paint on the walls in the back garden
Brushstrokes which were wavy, imperfect, rough around the edges but beautiful. Just like you, Dad
