Where are you now?

As the door on 2014 softly closes, I think of you once more.  It’s three years since you passed away, yet I still remember you every day.  I hear your voice in my head.  I ask you questions.  I miss so much: that feeling of safety and security that only a parent can give, your advice, your help, your presence.

But now you’re gone to some place where I cannot find you.  There is no grave for me to visit or lay flowers.  Your ashes were scattered from the summit of a Scottish mountain, according to your wishes.  So all that was left of you was borne away by the breeze to who knows where.

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In memory of Dylan Thomas

Welsh poet and writer Dylan Thomas was born one hundred years ago today, but I wonder have my children even heard of him.  I’m not actually a big reader of poetry, but Dylan was different.  His words really got under my skin, and scratched those raw places in my psyche like nothing else could.

It was a family thing too: my third name was given in memory of his wife, and I have inherited a well-thumbed copy of Under Milk Wood that I always read aloud in a really bad Welsh accent.

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