It was a three and a half hour round trip to collect my lovely stepson. I cried all the way knowing that my father had very little time left with us. I hugged my little stepson tightly when I saw him. My father, who had been born on his farm and lived 81 years on that same patch of land, wanted to go home. But we couldn't bring him home. We couldn't because his medical needs were too great. Instead we watched him die over seven days in his flower filled room, sleeping away the pain in a morphine dream. We did finally bring him home after a church service filled to the brim with folk and flowers. Flowers from his farm tied into large bunches of daffodils with branches of red current and cherry blossom and yellow sprigs picked from his gardens. Music from the Scottish Fiddle Orchestra played a bouncy tune. Smiles through the tears. Then his final journey back to his farm with a convoy of cars snaking their way through the country road to home, the trip he had taken thousands of times on foot as a boy, and by car and tractor and pick up truck, throughout the years. We buried him on top of the hill he'd picked out years before. His last view, lovely across his fields to the Galloway hills beyond.
And in all that sadness there is still much to love about life. My little Edinburgh family and my rescue dog who give hugs whenever I need them. The kindness of neighbours and friends, gently checking in that I am OK. The memories I have of him, and the rich land he left behind on the farm he planted with trees, and pretty roses and honeysuckles, and bright rhododendrons. And daffodils. Hundreds of daffodils that fill every space in spring and which eventually heralded his departure from us. They will sing to us every year when they bloom, to remind us all that he was here. And he is still here.
