Summer

T he headaches are getting worse, which makes writing hard. I hope you understand why these notes are getting shorter. I have so much to say but no strength in my bones to write.

I'm sitting by the window today, and I can see you outside, standing in the sunshine, the wind tousling your hair. Hair like spun gold. I always teased your mum about your hair. Nobody else in the family has hair like yours, not even me. But your mum and I, we made you. I can guarantee you that. You were made with so much love, with so many hopes and dreams.

I'm sorry I won't be part of the rest of your life. I hope you go far—there is so much more out there than what I can see from this window, however much you and I love this godforsaken place, the sticks and stones we call home. Go. Go as far as you can. Find your place in the world because we all know it isn't here, son.

It looks so warm out there, yet here I am, wearing two cardigans and hoping you'll remember to come in and sort out the fire before you go help Flora with the sheep.

Oh, those sheep. Constantly bleating.

When you read this, it will be your 28 th birthday. It will be summer again, and you will be a year older, again. I want you to read these notes with joy, and I hope you do—with a smile on your handsome face. I hope you will be happy. Happier than you are now. Please don't think I want to be remembered as anything but your old man who made you smile, who never saw the point in moisturiser, however much you tried to explain it to me, and never got your taste in music. There are so many things I never understood.

I do understand your smile, though, and you are smiling out there.

I wish I was there. I wish I could give you a hug and remind you I have your back. I always will.

Be happy.

Dad.

x