I miss you.

I miss the way you smell, the way you�ve always smelt since the very first day I can remember.

I miss the way you thought everything was solvable and fixable no matter what the problem. Rational. Sensible. So different from me. I was not my Father�s daughter. And yet...

I miss your random, rubbish email jokes and your bad, bad text messages with their total lack of punctuation and capitalization; you, you with your grammar and your spelling obsessions, so knowledgeable about technology yet so appalling at texting.

I miss the way you rang me just to tell me there was a rainbow, or a robin in your garden, or a spider in your window or a joke that made you laugh.

I miss your laugh.

I miss the way you could do anything you chose to. I was so proud of you, I am proud of you still. And I miss you being proud of me.

I miss you calling Harry a prune and I miss you telling us we�d got fatter, (although I never thought I�d say that) and I miss your always, always having to be right, even when you were really, really wrong.

I miss your delight in a brand new full bottle of Prosseco, generously monitoring everyone�s glass to make sure it was full but always making sure yours was the fullest, and I miss you being excited about yoghurt, and ice-cream and raspberries, and Dad�s Beef Stew because even though I�ve got the recipe it won�t be the same as you making it.

I miss the way you stroked my hair and cuddled me when I was sad and frightened. I miss having someone stronger, older, wiser, someone who loved me so much they would always, always look after me no matter what I did or said or asked for or shouted about.

Who will look after me now?

And how can I change the file name of the picture of you from me.jpg? You called it that, and now you are not here to call pictures of you me.

And how can I delete you from my phone? From my email? How can I press Yes when my computer asks me Delete: Daddy?

My Dad.

How I miss you.

And nothing I write can do you justice because you were such a physical, visual person. How can I represent you in words when you were colours and sounds and smells and ideas and suggestions and emotions? And so very much more besides.

All I can do is write this for you, about you. An online note which explains to no-one how I really feel, or what you actually meant to me, and which does not do you justice.

And all I can think is that I want you to be back. Even though you were so sick, and so sad, and so tired and so very, very fed up I want you back. Just for a bit more. Just for one more cuddle, one more witty comment, one more clink of a glass, one more wink, one more smile, one more, one more, one more...

...Just one more.

And how selfish is that?

Oh, and how selfish is that.