I recently read a post on loss, where a man described how he would press his face into his wife’s clothing, desperately searching for her scent.

What he wrote caught me off-guard and I have rarely had such keen identification.

I would find my father’s overcoat and press my face into its lapel, inhaling deeply into the tweed fabric, in the hope of catching the remnants of his lingering scent. It reeks of desperation and I inhale more and more deeply grasping at all that’s left of him…

My attempts to rekindle something of the man I loved so dearly, have never resulted in more than a sensory phantom of his presence.

The last time I went looking for him; I couldn’t find the coat and became caught in a worry, searching old closets and pegs about the house. I still don’t know where it is and I fear it may have been thrown out.

What I am more afraid of; finding it and realising his scent has gone.

I can see him now, standing on the path to Church, in his salmon pink chinos and huge chest filling the coat. I beam at him and he affectionately screws tight his eyes and briefly clenches his outstretched hand.

It hurts writing this and it has awoken a deep sadness in me. A churning absence is left behind by those dearly loved and lost.

There is also an unfailing love, as such warmth surrounds many memories of him and happiness too, like a sun that has disappeared over the horizon, leaving its warmth still on my face.

It’s really hard and I miss him so much.

I’ve found that sadness comes in waves. It’s as if I’m sailing in an endless sea, as changeable as the weather, where waves loom for no reason; on certain days; in certain places, I feel the hole starting to churn inside.

Sometimes I want to feel sad; pain can be comfortable, because it’s familiar and feels safe.

I miss Daddy, we all do, though I find it strange that I can miss sadness too. I sometimes go looking for it on the lapel of his coat.