23 April 1929 - 17 March 2000

My Dad died at a few minutes past midnight on St. Patrick's Day eight years ago. To think that he somehow held out for a little longer to throw a last nod and wink in my direction is egotistical and nonsensical. But I think it nonetheless and try to squeeze it for a few drops of comfort.

For seven years, the anniversary got easier and easier. Sadness at his absence segued into bittersweet memories of laughter in his presence. The pain faded.

But this year is different. I am not in London. I have an empty simulacrum of a relationship with my mother. I am not among old friends. I spend the majority of my time alone. These are steroids that turn loss, sadness and nostalgia into veiny, bulbous, bodybuilding champions.

I've been anticipating this anniversary with dread for days because I'm currently missing my Dad more than I have since the weeks after his death. He can't come back and I can't go back.

And that makes me feel like I can't go forward.