Last night I dreamed a dream about my family. I hugged my great-aunt. The last of a big family - she's grudgingly alive and I saw her at Les's funeral. It hurt her when I held her hand. In the dream I gave her a hearty hug. In my dreams she's not as fragile as a piece of Queen Anne's lace.
When I woke up, my head was filled with music and I suddenly realised that neither father had appeared at that family function. "They're both dead," my half awake self said to my dreaming self. "That's why they weren't there." And that's the moment I finally accepted that Les is gone. Sometimes it takes days, sometimes weeks. This time it's taken months for me to reach a deep acceptance.
I'm still angry: parents aren't supposed to die. I should be able to ring him and ask about my front door and about the lighting in my lounge and to gossip with him about the grandchildren. Instead I give cheek to his grandchildren on Facebook and just let the draught at the door remain unblocked. Right now the grandchildren and I are deciding if Mum is cool or ubercool.
I know he's gone. Just now I put some scented geranium in the pot-pourri bowl at the door and it will mingle with lavender and his warmth and wonderfulness will greet friends at my front door. Les was well-known for his amazing pelargoniums and geraniums and this comes from the biggest and best of them all, the one he planted at the driveway. It has a mixed flower scent, like an old-fashioned pot pourri. He was an old-fashioned father and I miss him.
It's good I can let him go, though. Parents shouldn't have to remain that long, unreleased.