I just spent an hour looking through all my dad's old things. In the chest that my mum keeps at the foot of her bed (she wants to keep him, or at least, the memory of him, close) in that chest, there is a little book, filled with messages to him from people I've never met nor heard of. From cover to cover there are messages of mourning, love, grief, all for a man taken from the world too soon. And its not fair that these strangers knew him and I didn't. And its not fair that now heaven has him and I don't.