We will Meet Again

Dear Dad,

When I was little, you healed my doll’s eyes when I poked them in.

You taught me how to ride a bike, and the ways of cats, and cows, and men.

That chook poo makes good compost and how to plant a tree.

You were a hurdy-gurdy, a bucking horse, and a twirling airplane ride.

You built playhouses, flying-foxes, rope ladders, and swings.

You were mild tempered, yet strong enough to chase away a prowler with a big stick.

You liked boats and camping, the bush, and the sea.

You were artistic and good with your hands.

You built play-houses, and real-houses, batches, and outhouses.

Unfortunately, you believed girls could do anything.

I’m grateful now, but I didn’t enjoy learning to hammer and dig, quarry rocks, plaster, and concrete.

You taught Robyn how to skin possums, but I drew the line at that!

Instead, I worked with you in your workshop, turning kauri into vases and trinket boxes.

Remember all those tea breaks when we sat on upturned buckets and talked as we drank tea from the dribbling teapot?

Oh, how we laughed when we found the dead Weta up the spout.

You were wise and knew all sorts of things. If I asked, “What do they use camel hairs for Dad?” you would have an answer.

You formed my mind and taught me how to think critically. It got us both into trouble from time to time but it was worth it.

I remember you reading your bible every day. It wasn’t just words to you, it was an instruction manual for life, and you did what it said.

Through it, you taught me the meaning of life, and introduced me to Jesus.

You were my hero.

You lived a quiet life, working with your hands, doing good to everyone around you.

I see you in my mind’s eye, meeting friends and family in heaven, and know I have lost nothing of value by your death.

It is but a brief parting.

Thank you, Dad, for being such a good father.

We will meet again soon.

Love Wendy.

Floored