Tag Archives: parents

Don’t Pause the Film

Today would have been my parents’ 64th wedding anniversary. Every year around this time, I share a photograph I’ve taken—not in sadness, but in celebration. A quiet footnote in the annuals of life, where a child pauses to recognise the incredible luck of having good parents.

I’m deeply aware that not every child has that foundation. My heart goes out to those who didn’t. It’s important to acknowledge the world’s failings, but equally vital to honour when things simply go right.

It’s now four years since my Mum passed, and three since my Dad. Yes, I miss them every single day. But I refuse to let that overshadow the lovely people they were—both as individuals and together as parents.

Life was never perfect. And I never got to fulfill those later-life plans I dreamed up for them. Time is a bugger like that—the one resource we so often take for granted, yet always runs out too soon.

If life is a film:

Don’t pause it.

Don’t rewind it.

Live it.

Embrace every frame as if it’s the last before the credits roll.

And remember—you don’t get to write those credits.

Camera

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I don’t remember much from that day—just fragments, impressions—but it must have been summer 1971. I was about ten years old, and Scarborough was the kind of holiday spot that working-class families from the North-East could afford. The battleships of Peasmole Park, the thrill of getting drenched by the high tide, and my stubborn refusal to ride the infamous cable car—these were the threads of so many joyful childhood memories.

But what I vividly recall is my dad calling me over with that quiet authority he always had. He handed me his small Kodak camera and gave a careful demonstration. “I want you to take a photo of me and your mum, son,” he said. “When I say, don’t just press the button—make sure you can see both of us in the picture.”

I stood ready, heart pounding with importance. My parents arranged themselves—Dad leaning casually against the wall, Mum standing beside him, looking like tin rabbits waiting to be shot in one of those penny arcades we used to visit in the evenings.

“Not yet, son,” came Dad’s voice, patient but firm.

He took Mum’s hand and gently pulled her in front of him. She leaned back slightly as he wrapped his arms around her. “Now,” he said.

I pressed the button.

That simple moment—captured in a frame—holds a world of love, care, and quiet tenderness. It’s a picture of two people who built a life together, who gave me roots and wings. And every time I think of that day, I feel grateful for that brief lesson in how to see, how to hold on, and how to love.

Life’s Little Embers

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I once heard a quote, “a person does not truly die until the last person who knew them, to speak their name, also dies.” I find much beauty and poignancy in such an observation. It is one that gives context and comfort during those periods when context and comfort are not in abundance. It is within this context that I write a small piece on 3rd May, each year, for my parents. During the final years of their lives, I took regular photographs of my parents so I could share them with their grandchildren, great-grandchild and wider family. Stored securely on a memory stick on this day I take that memory stick out, select a photograph and write a little something. Initially on closed social media platforms like FaceBook and more lately on open media like this from last year. This photograph was taken a couple of weeks before Mum’s health deteriorated rapidly over a very short period of time.

They had a routine, which generally consisted of them living separate lives during the day with occasional chats as one of them would make a pot of tea or meal. Dad, in the front room with his latest model building project. Mum, in the back room, reading and watching the latest soap. Pet dog seeking attention from either one of them. Each evening they would share their meal, cuddle up, natter and watch TV.

In my final year with them, I got the opportunity to hug them, share stories, tell them how much I loved them, explain to them how proud I am to be their son. As a family, to express in their later years that it was an honour to care for them. This became the foundation for coming to terms with not having them physically in our lives. It’s the small stories that become important. My dad asking for, “gingersnap biscuits to be put in his pocket when we put him in his box.” My mum reminding us, “make sure your dad gets his meals” during last days she was able to communicate. The search for my mum false teeth after she passed away and then to find her gnashers many months afterwards in the back of my car without any rational reason why they should have been there. I’m also happy to report that nothing gives me more satisfaction than hearing their grandchildren and great-grandchildren share these small anecdotes.

Another Day Another Year

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Today (3rd May) is one of those days. A marker in one’s life where I take time to pause and reflect on those people who have given me the foundations to build my life. As I write this, I do so with a gentle glow of pride that Janet (my sister) and I had two amazing parents who both passed away on this day 12 month apart. Today marks the first anniversary of a year without them physically in our lives. The tears have subsided, the photographs make me smile, the space they left remains, but their presence is strangely stronger. I see them in the day to day behaviours of individual family members (yes sister you have mums fire burning inside). I hear them in the causal talk of their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I often see them in my mind’s eye when I ask myself, “what would they think?” or reflect on a memory.

As my parents entered the last phase of their lives and with their blessing, I took an assortment of photographs. I also had the fortune to talk about my parents on national radio via Lauren Laverne’s BBC 6Music’s regular slot Memory Tapes, which judging from the feedback I received reflected the thoughts of many people who heard it. My mum passed away shortly after I took this photograph, which captures their last kiss.

Today, I write these words and share this image after careful consideration and talking to my sister partly to help break-down any fear we may have in discussing death, to offer support to those who may be facing similar circumstances and reassure you that there is light after the darkness. But more importantly to celebrate the beautiful cycle of life. If you are fortunate to have parents like me and my sister, they teach you how to live, love and ultimately how to die with dignity. When all is said and done can a child ask for anything more from their parents? Love all the people all the time.

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The Last Flower

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Somethings have explanations, some things take belief, while others just leave you pondering for a rational reason for them to exist. They capture a moment, like stars when they align. On this damp, chilly September morning in the corner of my kitchen, a corner where the plants do their best to thrive, of all these days, a blooming flower stretches out seeking the sky. It’s the last flower, my father planted before he died on the 3rd March 2017, which is exactly, to the day, 12 months after my mum had passed away. The significance of this solitary flower that blooms on this damp, chilly September morning is what causes the pause, as I make a breakfast tea and say happy birthday to my mum.