My dad passed away about two years ago—on Valentine’s Day. A date I never particularly liked to begin with. It always struck me as a day where men are expected to perform love, to prove their devotion with gestures that often feel rehearsed. I was never especially good at that, I’ll admit. And whenever I’ve felt pressured to play the role of the perfect husband or romantic partner, I’ve usually failed quite miserably.
Add to that the fact that this past February—around the anniversary of his death—I was going through a rough breakup. It all came to a head when I learned that my soon-to-be ex-wife had already moved in with her new boyfriend. Valentine’s Day, already uncomfortable, had now become unbearable. The most miserable day of the year.
So when the two-year mark of my father’s death approached in February 2025, I planned to stay home. Lock myself in. Avoid the couples flooding the streets, parading their affection under heart-shaped balloons and romantic candlelight.
But instead—perhaps in a moment of rebellion or desperation—I went on a last-minute Tinder date. I wasn’t expecting much. But I ended up talking with a warm, intelligent woman in her thirties for three hours in a quiet bar. No sparks flew, but the conversation flowed easily. And I left with a strange, cautious hope that there are still good people out there—and that maybe, one day, someone might feel right again.
A month later, I traveled to India for a business trip, which I extended into a personal retreat. I spent a week in an Ashram in Rishikesh. While there, I visited a Vedic astrologer—someone recommended by a friend. I’ll share more about that encounter in another post, but one thing he said struck a deep chord:
"You need to rekindle your relationship with your father, even though he is no longer here."
The words hit me with an almost electric clarity. Something inside me stirred, and I knew—without doubt—that this was true. That this was something I needed to do.
So when I returned home to Porto Rafti, I created a small shrine in his honour. I framed two photos of him and placed them on top of my 1918 vintage typewriter from Constantinople—it felt fitting, somehow.
The first is one I took myself, just six months before he died. We were at our summer house on the Norwegian island he loved so much. He’s wearing a sky blue lambswool sweater, a darker blue shirt underneath, and his usual silver-framed glasses. A worn old cap shades his forehead. His face is a little sunburned, but almost wrinkle-free—remarkable for 84. His hands rest peacefully in his lap, and he’s looking straight at the camera with that calm, kind smile that somehow made everything okay.
The second photo—used on the back of the funeral program—is from decades earlier. He’s probably around my current age. He’s standing tall on a mountain ridge, hunting dogs by his side, wearing his old checkered wool shirt and green field pants, a shotgun slung casually over his shoulder. His binoculars hang from his neck, and a cartridge belt circles his waist. There’s a proud, adventurous air about him in this photo. The landscape behind him is rugged and golden. He looks confident, strong, and quietly content. The tilt of his head matches the later photo almost exactly. Same gaze, same essence—just time playing its tricks.
Sometimes I search for my own face in his. But I take more after my mother’s side, I think. Maybe the cheekbones, or the slope of the nose. To be honest, I often struggle to recognise myself at all. My inner sense of who I am rarely matches the reflection in the mirror.
And I wonder—how do others see me? And how different is that from the version I carry inside?
How did he see me?
I know he probably found me a bit strange when I was young—sensitive, quiet, then suddenly rebellious. In my late teens, I dove headfirst into the punk rock and skateboarding scenes of the '90s, partying hard every weekend, drinking too much, living wild. For those years it felt like we were strangers living under the same roof, and for the decades that followed, we were acquaintances with not much in common.
But in his final 15 or 20 years, we grew closer. I’m grateful for that. He told me—especially in the last few months—that he was proud of me. And I was proud of him too.
He had a natural charisma in social settings, often writing clever, song lyrics customised for each guest that he made them sing out loud. He could make a room come alive. I always admired that. Deep down, I think he would have loved to be a journalist or writer instead of the high-level businessman he became.
He had a tender heart, even if it was well-protected. And every time he gave a speech to my mother—usually tearful by the second or third sentence—I saw that deep sensitivity shining through. That was something we shared.
All these thoughts, memories, and quiet reflections stayed with me in the weeks after setting up the little shrine. I began to speak to him again—at first just in my mind, then sometimes aloud. And slowly, something started to open.
One evening, the words came almost on their own. A kind of letter. A quiet tribute. Not polished, not planned—just honest.
Here is the poem I wrote for him:
Still Here
Now you are gone, but still you linger— like the scent of old books in a closed room, like light that remains after the candle has burned out.
I say good morning, Dad. I say good evening, as if tossing pebbles into a quiet pond, hoping the ripples reach wherever you are.
You keep smiling— in that photo by the sea— a smile not bound by time, but etched into the grain of who I am. It moves through me like a song half-remembered yet never forgotten.
Your presence lingers in the small movements I make— the way I walk. the way I pause before I speak too much. It’s as if parts of you still move through me, quietly, without asking.
From grandfather to father, to son, to grandson— your voice has softened into echoes, your gaze lives on in eyes you never saw.
Sometimes, I speak aloud to you. Sometimes, I only think the words. And still, I feel your weight— not heavy, just enough to straighten my back when I doubt myself.
Your authority remains like a distant mountain— its shadow still shaping the valley of my choices. And your love— muted, but real— lives in the silence between my sentences, in the warmth of remembering.
You are gone, but still— you are here. I carry shards of you in my pocket, talisman pieces of your best self.
And I wish, God, I wish we had sat longer in those wordless afternoons. I think you wanted that too, but neither of us knew how to break the weather of pride and habit.
Now my own daughter, your granddaughter, talks with friends in the other room— her laughter drifting like dandelion seeds through the corridor.
And already I see my future regrets germinating in small, missed moments. Not enough time. Not enough listening. Not enough pause to open the soft gate of vulnerability between us.
You struggled to show emotion— except that storm of stress that thundered through my younger years. And yet, what stays with me is the quiet truth beneath your weather:
The way you stood with unwavering grace. The fierce love you held for Mum like a candle in cupped hands. The soft dignity of your silences.
I take all that with me. It lives in the marrow of who I’ve become.
You are gone— but the wind still carries your name through the trees.