When did your father die?
a) My father never died. He’s as alive and well in life as he is in my dreams.
b) I have no way of knowing, whether it was a stroke that took him on a rainy November
night or a speeding car that struck him down in the middle of the High Street, whether it
was a rabid dog or the tip of a finger of lightning upon his head, like thread through a
needle. I wonder, if he is dead, if it was peaceful, and if it was anything, I hope it was
that – the gentle feel of Death’s hand on his as he lay sleeping, curious but not afraid,
wide-eyed wonder of a child, a quiet death for the quietest of men.
c) I’d like to dance around the question by bringing up semantics. What do you mean by
die? What do you mean by father?
d) When I was fourteen.
e) When he drove away into the cold night, never looking back, never waving, never
waiting to see me walk safely through the door. I knew I’d never see him again – I knew
the same way anyone can know anything to be dead, by the linger of rot and the glass
of the eyes. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. Death only comes when he knows he must.
Liv Gamble (she/her) is a 26-year-old lesbian writer from the UK. She holds a Bachelor's and Master's degree in Creative Writing and is particularly passionate about writing that includes LGBT+ themes. Being a born romantic, poetry is her favoured genre to write in. Find her on Twitter: @ollyolly_olly