The house is a location famous for the photograph my mum took of my dad, lying across the windowsill. My memory of him existed here but only through her lens.
The places today felt more personal to my mum, there was less for me to hold on to. It was strange to visit the woods, canal and cemetery that I had seen and played around as a child with my grandad countless times. I had my own memories here, but they weren’t of him.
It’s funny to think I didn’t even have the time to do a simple thing like take a walk or see his supposed “animal whispering” skills. It’s even funnier to imagine what he would think of my frightened outlook of dogs when he was so in love with them. Would he be disappointed or would he be amused?
Standing outside his first flat where he was when they met was strange for me. I’d never been here but often wondered about where he lived yet it felt like I had as it looked like every other house on the street, insignificant, unmonumental.
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