Fully English

CHAPTER 22

I am back where it all started: my home city of London. The drama at UWL had simply become too much and so in a hurry, I'd broken away, booked a ticket to London for the next day and counted down the hours until my coach arrived. Now I was here, in London, south to be exact. My father is buried in an idyllic cemetery here and I am on my way to his grave with a bouquet of flowers in hand. It's not an anniversary or birthday, I just want to see him and feel his energy.

Besides me, there is nobody here and I am thankful because now I can be alone with him and speak aloud. The words I say can carry from my lips up to heaven and nature will be my response. He will speak to me through the rustle of the tree branches and the kiss of raindrops from the sky like he always did – our special language.

After entering through the gates I walk for a while to the end of the path and find the headstone that marks his placement: it is his favourite colour – violet blue – with a matte finish. Though it has stood here for years it hasn't lost its shine and I know why – my mother hired a stone cleaner to tidy and polish it monthly after my dad first passed. She didn't have the strength to visit him in the early days so she figured it was best someone else 'keep an eye on him' as she put it. The plan that she would eventually take over the cleaning never came to fruition as she didn't come here often. She argued that the cemetery was too far, the area too smelly, but I knew she just wasn't strong enough. I couldn't imagine how she felt knowing her partner was buried in the ground beneath her feet, dead, whilst she was above it.

I lay the bouquet of flowers I am carrying at my feet and smile: the blue irises, hydrangeas, and perennials match the headstone just as the florist said they would. I was afraid at first that the contrast would be too strong but it was perfect. The dark undertones of dad's headstone were complimented by the yellowy green undertones of the petals.

I sit on the dirt ground and read the inscription on his grave aloud.

In Loving Memory of Kolby Olson

A loving husband, dutiful father and famous friend to all.

I am blushing though I don't know why. This closeness to my father always felt metaphysical, like he was right there, cooing at me when I was a toddler. I missed those days. My fingers extend to feel the engraving on the stone the way I would his beard when I was a kid, latching on so tight he wouldn't let me go. I never saw him much so when he was around, nothing could keep me from him except sleep. Then I woke up and he'd be gone again.

"I miss you," I say.

The many memories I had entrenched to the back of my mind were resurfacing and I find myself going over conversations we had: from juvenile chit chat to the long drawn out debates. He always let me vent to him as a kid, even when I spoke utter crap he listened, heard me out, explained why I was wrong and let me know how to do better. He lived by a moral code that was unshakably primal to his being and nothing got in the way of it – not naysayers or friends or even family. That's how prize his morals were. He'd be turning in his grave if he knew how many obligations I'd broken since he departed. My skin bristles at the harshening wind and I pull my scarf tighter around my neck. 

I know it's him.

It is evening but with summer practically here it is still bright. In just a few hours the End of Semester ball will commence and I have the sudden urge to pick up the phone and call Reece to ask if he's still going. I know George will be there.

I sigh, taking in the earthy scent that is more potent than ever with the smell of rain in the air. Now that I look around I realise we are in the thick of Spring. Flowers are not just in the bouquet before me but everywhere – between the blades of grass, at the root of trees, entwined on the steel gates of the cemetery. Spring was coming to an end and with it, the birth of a new season was arriving. I use my father's headstone as a crutch to stand up and straighten my legs before I lose feeling in them. If I sit here any longer I will be stuck, physically and mentally, and I don't want to be stuck. Dad would hate that. Mum wouldn't appreciate that.