Second Prize winner
I stroll up here sometimes, to the cemetery, sit for a while and place a few flowers. Yes I’ve changed son. Too late I know, but – well, I have changed. Can’t fix anything, mend what’s broken, but I’ve just got to write it all down.
Letter
I wasn’t much of a dad really, was I? I realise now, now it’s too late, you were a lovely boy but because you weren’t the sort of son I imagined, I suppose I punished you for that.
You weren’t sporty, you were a bit of a loner. You’d spend hours in your room practising, practising. Classical guitar! Not rock and roll. Classical guitar. Phh! And what did I do “Oh, that’s enough now son, give it a rest will you”. Moan, that’s what I did. Instead of coming in and taking an interest; listening, encouraging, I just had a go at you. Because really I just wanted you to be out playing football or tinkering with a motorbike. The sort of things normal teenagers should be doing. Yeah that’s what I felt normal was. What a berk! Why didn’t I recognise you craved my approval? Why didn’t I realise, despite my criticisms, you loved me.
Too busy feeling sorry for myself because your mum wasn’t around, that’s what it was. So I took it out on you. Angry with you because you read ‘poncy books’ and you spoke different.
Things I should have been proud of but I resented because deep down I knew they were things I should have done myself. Sounds crazy but I reckon I was jealous of you. I did love you but I couldn’t show it because I was jealous. Yeah that’s what it was. And that’s why, that night, we had that massive row, and I said those horrible things to you. I said you were an embarrassment, a waste of time and that you would never be a real man…
I can see you now, crying as you packed your things. And did I try to stop you? No!
“Go on, go” I said. “Go and don’t come back”. And you left. Quietly closed the door, didn’t slam it, just slipped in to the street.
For months I didn’t hear from you and it was awful; the uncertainty, how you were doing. Then you wrote. Just a short letter, you said,
“Hallo Dad, just writing to let you know that at last I’m going to do something to make you proud of me. I’m going to join the army. Cheers Dad. Love Simon x”
I wanted to hug you when I read it. I wanted to write to you and say, No, no, no. That’s not you Simon. Roadside bombs, mates dying in your arms, memories that haunt you. Yes, I wanted to write, but I didn’t. Why? Well, pride, stupid pride and a fear that perhaps this ‘softie’ son would have made a better soldier than I ever was I suppose.
And so I never wrote that letter, asking you not to go; to come home instead. I never wrote it and now, sometimes, I stroll up here and place a few flowers.
