It was only three months ago that my dad and I were chatting in my kitchen about whether he wanted red Thai chicken curry or a steak for supper. Now, rightly or wrongly, I’m hoping he can speak to me from beyond the grave.
It feels ironic, especially as he scoffed at the idea of an afterlife. I’m open to the idea, but as I wait for my 50-minute spirit reading to begin, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a tidal wave of grief. My dad, who was 91, has gone forever. Where is he? We were inseparable. He lived with me in the last months of his life, and was a father figure to my children, Lola, eight, and Liberty, six. He was my steadfast rock who I could always count on. I cared for him until the end. I want to know if he’s OK. I want to know if he’s happy and with my mum. I want to know if what I’m doing is a useful tool for processing grief. Or if it’s utterly ridiculous.
