I remember my father

I remember him looking into the hall mirror – using his round, off-white barbers comb to smooth back his short wavy hair while I waited intently at the front door.

I remember him neatly folding his shirt sleeves up two turns as he smiled and we headed out into the dappled Irish summer sunlight.

I remember his hand on my shoulder as we both walked down the front driveway.

I remember his instructions to first look left and then look right as I swayed slightly, balancing the soles of my feet on the angle of the kerb.

I remember him crouching down to look at me face to face and asking me to repeat the instructions before we crossed the road.

I remember him accompanying me across the road.

And 32 years after the fact, I remember how much I miss my father and am almost brought to sudden unexpected tears sitting amongst strangers on the morning tram.