My Dad. He was my safe place. My home. Nestled between his shoulders and neck, my head found a place to lie. I used to imagine that it was carved there just for me. It just seemed to fit my big head perfectly. So many times, when tears fell on the inside of me, I would snuggle there, and he knew. No words needed to be said. Although I’m grown, I was a child again, tiny in his hands.
Mum tells me stories…
Every night after a faithful days work, in the dim light of the lounge room lamp, he would sit with me nestled on his chest. Together we would sleep, and a ritual rhythm of peace wove its way into my heart.
Magic takes place in those moments.
Unseen yet so powerful, beautiful bonds are formed.
It’s where father really takes on the meaning its designed to have.
But there came a time when he was too weak to carry my heavy head. Instead, my hands had to cradle his. I so desperately wanted his safety, my world was falling apart, yet I could not reach him. “Stuff it!” I thought, and ever so gently knelt beside the couch where he lay ill. We looked at each other and my tears began to fall on the outside. I hoped it would be ok as I snuggled into that safe place, careful not to cause him pain. Then, with such love, his weak arms made their way around my shoulders and together we wept.
I never want to forget that feeling, that place, the place of him.
(PICTURE: My Dad loved walking at the lake where this photo was taken. I took his 35mm camera for a walk one day and together we found this tree.)