Grief definitely comes in waves. For the most part you're just getting on with life, learning to live with a completely different world, the one without them in it, and the next you're choking, your breath coming in short gasps, the very specific pain knocking around your heart again. Oof, there it is - fucking hell.

A wierd thing happens though. You start to, in some ways, see this very specific sort of pain as a sweet, welcome pain, like an old friend has just walked in the room and you're happy to see them. It's the thread that links you back to the person who's gone. When the grief is in the room, so are they.

I've taken to saying, reflecting on these moments, that Dad was there. It's not quite the 'they're always with you' platitude, but I suppose something like it. The other day I was out surfing and the clouds were just being hit by first light and everything was purple and gold, and I'm thinking, Dad would have loved this, he would have loved to take photos this morning, and I'm howling at the moonset until I took off on a wave and my salt water tears became mixed with the great big sad fucking ocean and I was okay again. But Dad was there because I was thinking of him. It was joy and grief in the same sharp moment. Everything was incredibly freaking beautiful, even the absence of him in a way, because knowing he wasn't there was remembering when he wasn't there too.

It happened again this morning. I was sitting knitting in my van watching the ocean (I honestly never thought I'd ever say a line like that - knitting? What the?) and I put on Chris Smithers, because I used to listen to him with Dad, and it's bugging me I can't listen to his music because it sends me into paroxysms of grief. Later I'd whatsapp my bestie about it. 'I was sitting in the van knitting with Dad', I'd type, because she would know that meant I was thinking about him.

I managed to get through "Leave the Light On" okay but I could feel things hurting. At the same time Dad was next to be in the van. His skinny legs. Just his unmistakeable presence, and I could feel the memory of us sitting and talking about music, and remembered the time last year we drove out to Bells and took photos of the kangaroos.

Dad was always a fan of intricate fingerpicking guitar and American Roots, amongst other things. We played a Chris Smither version of Dylan's Visions of Johanna at his funeral. Definitely can't listen to that without losing my shit.

Chris Smither is an American folk and blues singer, guitarist, and songwriter renowned for his intricate fingerpicking, gravelly voice, and profound songwriting. Born on November 11, 1944, in Miami, Florida, he grew up mainly in New Orleans and was influenced early on by blues legends such as Lightnin’ Hopkins and Mississippi John Hurt. Smither’s career began in the 1960s after he moved to Boston, following advice from folk singer Eric von Schmidt, to join the vibrant folk scene there. He quickly became part of a network that included Bonnie Raitt, who helped bring wider attention to his work by recording his song “Love You Like A Man” (which Raitt retitled “Love Me Like a Man”). This song, along with others, has since been covered by artists like Diana Krall and The Dixie Chicks. Over a career spanning more than 60 years, Smither has released numerous albums, starting with I'm a Stranger, Too! in 1970, and has toured extensively in the United States and internationally. His music draws deeply from the blues, American folk traditions, and modern poetry and philosophy, earning him a reputation as a respected and influential figure in acoustic music circles. Despite never achieving mainstream superstardom, he is celebrated for his originality and authenticity, and his songs have been featured in films, television, and covered by many other artists. - Thanks Perplexity.

And so I'm in the van with Dad and we're tapping our feet and our fingers and singing the lyrics and appreciating the music and I'm fucking crying but Dad doesn't notice because he's on another plane where he's in this beautiful musical moment listening to an artist he loves and I'm happy because he's happy in the van with me and I'm only ever going to feel his presence when I'm listening to guitar and crying like this and I suppose that's okay because he's not here and the only way he can be here in through the painful doors into my heart.

Let it fly and lonely cry, everybody's free
I will decide how I'll be tied, but freedom will be the death of me
We'll build the walls around our brain
Leave these prisons in our chains
And hold on
And I thought I had control, I tried
But now I would be satisfied
To hold on
I thought I had control, I tried
But now I would be satisfied
To hold on
Tell me what to do, and I'll tell you what I'll say
My freedom will be measured by the lengths to which I'll disobey
Tell me where to go
And I'll freely tell you, "No"
But I will hold on
But leave me on my own
And I'll lock these shackles to my bones
And hold on
But leave me on my own
And I'll lock these shackles to my bones
And hold on