My Dad’s death last month, following an intense, but relatively short battle with cancer, has been the most visceral, powerful experience of my life, bar none – and I include childbirth in that. Watching someone I loved so much take their last breath when, for a few precious minutes, it was just me, and him, alone, was a privilege both terrible and beautiful.
I will never forget holding our son in my arms for the first time. He was 10 months. A chubby-cheeked, healthy boy, with a curious look. My brown-eyed boy. With silky soft olive skin. A little tired, and unsure about the situation. But he was calm looked straight at us, and as I held him he almost instantly lent onto my chest. And just lay there. Only self-control prevented my heart from bursting.
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