Memories are made of this

Decades have past since you slipped away. I think of you most days. Blossom,thin,sunshine scarce as cold winds roar in town and country lane.
My hair would now be grey yet I cannot face the day, not yet at least, when my blonde hair slips away.

Sometimes it's my hearing the distinctive sound of accordian melodies that carries me back through the years; way before my tears had numbed my face and nose and sun shone in every corner- even when the blizzards tore around the world of fifty seven.

As I watched a scene from midwives on the telly the words, always your words to me, sang out....Kay-serr-ar Ser-ar took me home to you. In simple funny ways you'd gaze, yet sadly never seen, the little girl who was your child and always lingered near you. You were my dad . A giant man whose arms and legs as well fixed your presence in many ways when our world was stable.

I wish this was just a fable for this first day of our April when lonely sparrow's stick thin legs, then another balances on a chimney pot and close to the t.v aerial. Our world is still. It's too cold to venture anywhere despite our arctic coats and wooly hats, with scarves to match and so we wait for nicer days when everyone seems nicer. Is that my imagination; I wonder.

Yet, in spite of all of this, I thank my god for life now filled with melodies of adult children who take my breath away. Could that child who stands before me whose over six foot tall, cautious or laid back be the man who rolls his eyes if he hears the mum in me enquire about his destiny; I mean his girl-friend who he tucks quite firmly away from me. If I move forward surreptiously of course, he shifts his stance then glances at the door before muttering he must move on

I named him after you, my sunny special dad; my James who lives in dust and cob-webs; just far away from us to know we're always there for him.