Our Da (For my siblings)

It’s that time of year again, January. Da died on the 21st of January 1987. That sounds like centuries ago, but doesn’t feel like it. I clearly remember the phone call from ma that night. I cried for two years after that call.

Everywhere I went I saw him. Even when I moved to the US. I’d see people who were his double! It was uncanny. And every radio station played songs that triggered memories of him. I’m thinking it was his way of letting me know that he’d never really left us. That his heart and spirit was still very much alive and watching over us. I’ve changed his poem a little. Mostly last line. 

Our Da

*

There never was a kinder man

when er his weans were sick

He’d make us magic boiled eggs

they seemed to do the trick

*

He’d give us drinks of Lucozade

and tell us irish jokes

And to be sure we all stayed warm

he’d pile the bed with coats

*

He’d check on us each now and then

and give the fire a poke

And make us tea with lots of milk

as tenderly he spoke

*

He’d hover like a mother hen

until we lost the fever

And let us know when we threw up

the worst of it was over

*

No, there never was a kinder man

when er his weans were ill

Than our auld Da, Big Wattie

His love is with us still

*

I can still see him dancing to this kind of music

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