Looking on with a smile

THESE handful of days since Dad died are surreal.

Sometimes I feel closer to Dad than I did when he was alive other moments I panic as I can't quite see his face.

On Thursday as I was sitting on the patio, the one my Dad built for me last summer, talking to my brother William on the phone, a red balloon floated from the sky and landed on Mr Gramps.

“William, a red balloon has landed in my garden,” I blurted as I picked my way through leaves and soggy grass to reach it.

“Oh my God,” I said as I turned the balloon in my hands, “It is a British Heart Foundation balloon and has a big white heart on it.”

The day before, William and I had written “donations to the British Heart Foundation” at the bottom of the Order of Service.

“It's a sign from Dad, Will. He is with us.”

I told the funeral director, Sandra, who has this rare ability to make me and William feel safe and secure.

“What a wonderful sign," she said. "Your Dad is with you all the time.”

The funeral process is so strange yet so beautiful.

I spent the weekend washing and drying Dad’s favourite jumper and warm, thick gilet to wear in the Chapel of Rest.

“Kay, I don't have any undergarments for Dad, and I have left it too late to go to Marks and Spencer's. Agh, I don't know what to do,” I said to my friend.

“Don't panic, let's look through Matt's things, he will have a pair of boxers and a large T shirt.”

“I know it sounds silly Kay, but I want him to be comfortable and warm, even though I know he isn't in his body anymore.

“I don't want him to chafe.”

She smiled and handed me an old, faded sports T shirt and some thick blue pants.

Dad wasn't the sporty type but he loved my friends Kay and Matt.

I could feel him smiling at us.

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