Darling Papa...

Remember when I was small enough to curl on your lap? Summer evenings tucked in tight, my cotton nightdress pulled down over my knees. The Magical Faraway Tree as the backdrop to our scene. Do you remember? Can you still recall that pale and spindly little girl who handed you her dreams and fears as readily as the books she wanted read?

My earliest partner in crime. The hushed tones as we conspired in the kitchen, you handing over contraband, pre-dinner biscuits or sprinkling an extra large spoonful of sugar over my cornflakes with a knowing wink.

The way you lovingly sliced tiny pickled onions for my salad sandwiches, bowing down to a picky daughter's every whim.

Sledging. Well not so much sledging as dragging. You my sled pulling husky, pulling me up and down the driveway as I cheered with delight. You who never complained at my shrieks of again, again.

Your office. The smell of coffee, cigarettes and aftershave. The stationary cupboard; a free pass for me to help myself. Paper, pens, stamps and ink pads. And the fact that next door housed a toy shop that you would visit on my behalf.

All the cups of tea that you woke me up with. All the homework projects that you endured. All the times I let you down with my surly teenage behaviour and door slamming strops.

All the times you forgave me, laughing at my volatile youth.

Morecambe and Wise, The Two Ronnies and The Marx Brothers. I often found myself watching you and not the tv. The way you roared with laughter, your face lighting up like a beacon. And when you found something particularly funny your knees would rise up to meet your hands as you doubled over in your chair.

The ten pound notes you would secretly palm me. The worried look on your face as you would ask how I was doing for money. The letters you wrote on my behalf, getting me out of various financial scrapes, educating me to be better with cash.

Our evening phone calls and later, when you learned how, text messages. Sometimes perfunctory, often waffled ramblings but always signed off with 'dad' just in case I wasn't sure.

The look on your face when handed your first tiny granddaughter. The worry you felt in case you might not handle her as gently as she might deserve.

The relief when you retired. The endless pottering and odd-jobbing. Newspaper reading and crossword completing. Endless days of whatever you fancied. Peace. And quiet.

Stroke. Heart attack.

Coma.

The memory of you laying foetal. Tubes and monitors. DNR forms.

24hr monitoring. Doctors with quiet, sympathetic smiles.

Five months.

Recovery.

Almost.

There are bits of you missing. You rebuilt yourself but some of the pieces got lost along the way. You defied medicine but have no memory of doing so.

I will continue to remind you of all the things that make you who you are; who you were. As you descend further into your head I will be there, looking into your eyes, seeing you.

And when you no longer remember who I am, I will remember for the both of us.