Dearest Cheeku,
I waited. I read and heard that if I try and drown myself in the everyday chores, in the never ending meetings and conveyor-belt of files that stream through my long days, the longing of wanting to pick up the phone to hear your voice or the knock on the door to see you enter would subside. Somewhat. Somehow.
I tried. I promise I tried very hard. Through the new year and the change of seasons, through the bitterly cold winters and evenings spent with the ‘kids’ around the log fire at home, through the journeys to far off lands, through glory and brick-bats. I have tried.
I can share with you this. It doesn’t make a difference. It doesn’t reduce the longing. Memories of time spent with you, association of some place, some face, some voice, a fountain spouting water…they come back in fragments. Like the recent walk in Leicester Square in London. The rain-drenched walk from another time, you with me, then the walk into a bar and raising a toast of English beer…
Nothing is lost nothing is gained. Time stands still, time races ahead. You remain right there in the centre of my consciousness, exactly the way Tubby does. My elder son. My younger son.
This is a poem that triggered this message to you…someday, when I am with you, don’t forget to read to me all the poems I have written to you…then I would be so old, and you would still be my young son…
Long Journey
Through the endless sea
Every day is going
To become again free
In new morning flowing
In eve sunshine glow
And night lullabies
Where everything has to go
For tomorrow’s skies
Through the dreams of love
Like for you and I
As the clouds above
Meet the rising sky
And the feeling’s awake
With so much to give
For each time to make
And true love to live
Thrugh the endless hours
That shall come and go
Seeds of beautiful flowers
That we still don’t know
Every ending journey
That has gone long way
In our hope and liberty
In a morning of new day
Peter S. Quinn
Love
Dad