The written word

When I come to the end of the road,
And the sun has set for me.
I want no rites in a gloom filled room
Why cry for a soul set free?
Miss me a little, but not loo long,
And not with your head bowed low.
Remember the love that we once shared.
Miss me, but let me go.
For this is a journey we all must take,
And each must go alone.
It's all a part of the Master's plan
A step on the road to home.
When you are lonely and sick of heart,
Go to the friends we know,
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds.
Miss me, but let me go.

- Robyn Rancman


Today was fully occupied with the official paperwork - including Chelmsford Register Office for the certificate. Such was the weather that the sunshine I had arrived in transformed to thunderstorm and downpour so that I got absolutely soaked walking back to the car. This discomfort, combined with continuing back pain from Tuesday, and sadness from the tasks that I was engaged in, all made this a thoroughly miserable day and I retired to my bed for a couple of hours when I got home.

Dad loved books. He loved reading and also, loved the actual artifact - the book itself. He liked all kinds of Literature - certainly the "Classics" but most especially, he loved the historical adventure series of Patrick O'Brien, Bernard Cornwell and Alexander Kent. Perhaps most of all, his love of the written word was best embraced and celebrated in poetry. The poem above is the one he asked to be read at his funeral, and so it will be, but not by me.

This wall of books in his study is the familiar backdrop for all our Skype conversations when I am in Istanbul, and looking at them now brings bitter-sweet solace because he loved them so, but oh how I miss him and really am not able to let him go.