No longer my breathing, it’s Micah P. Hinson in my ears as I sit with coffee and reflection. Time is as elastic as ever, stretching out and pinging back with a snap. This time last year we were in Crete with family and new found friends tackling local Raki with gusto, climbing mountains and swimming the warm waters. Two years back I was itching for something more, try and cast my mind back three years but life was a blur. Four years ago, on the 24th of November 2008, as we sat at his side, telling him how much we all loved him, Dad passed away from us and loss overwhelmed me. As it did us all. Time ceased, perspective disintegrated and it seemed to me like the pain and grief that had taken over me could never ease. It was too great a force, a bleak place, and it was a lonely one at that.
Four years has been a long time, four years has been no time at all. As clear as yesterday. But not yesterday at all. A note tucked under my door from Pete’s mum four years ago read ‘Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day.’ As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t believe in those Shakespearian words she had chosen at the time, but I kept hold of that piece of paper and trusted Marian that one day it might be the case. With a lethargy time began to tick on, quite when it picked up I don’t rightly remember, time can be sneaky like that, but as I sit here now the tick tock is upbeat and the hourly strike is strong. So much has happened since his death, riding just shy of 20,000 kilometres alongside Pete, the sights and experiences have been incredible in so many ways. The roughest days have passed. There are times when I have to navigate carefully, which ironically can be when fantastic things are happening and I wish he could share them with us, but I guess that may always be the case now.
Last week it was randomly hearing the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band, the week before that it was the glory of discovering (and swiftly drinking a few) Old Speckled Hen in a tiny Chinese shop. These things can make me smile now, rather than being a sad reminder of his absence. I know that if he were here today he’d be taking great pleasure in our tales of adventure, even greater pleasure I’m sure in re-telling our tales proudly over a pint or two, embellishing them where he saw fit, and I know that if I could hear him at the bar now I’d be groaning like I always would saying ‘not this one again Dad’…
Much missed and never far from my thoughts, my Dad, John ‘Thommo’ Thompson xxx
