A letter to my father a year after his passing

I started this blog with the intention of documenting all of the wonderful things I see and experience in this world. It was, in part, a response to the anxiety I was feeling because of my father’s terminal illness. Shortly after I launched it, however, my father passed away.

The last year has been an extremely difficult one while I come to terms with the loss and with all the ways in which my life has changed.  Although this is not a typical post for my blog, I thought it was an appropriate way for me to honour him; today marks one year since his death.

A letter to my father

Dear dad,

Do you remember that makeshift darkroom you built in the basement? When I was young, you would slip behind that mysterious door with the eerie light behind it and disappear from the world for a time.

I remember one day you invited me into that unfamiliar world behind the door. I walked in with trepidation, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the darkened room before me.  I stood in this alien space, once the site of our basement, and watched as you walked towards a makeshift work area and slipped a pair of rubber gloves onto your hands.

I shuffled quietly closer as you mixed a selection of liquid chemicals in the buckets before you.

We stood together, largely in silence, as you unrolled the negative film and began working with it in the chemicals.  Over the next few minutes, I watched with wonder as you submerged a blank piece of paper into the solution.  Minutes passed, but slowly, as if by magic, an image revealed itself on the paper.

Gently, you removed the now decorated paper from the container and hung it to dry from a laundry line above the table. Removing the plastic gloves, you turned to me and smiled. My eyes were wide with wonder, the questions not yet formed, as I admired the paper you had transformed before my eyes.

As you often did, you moved your hand across my head, tangling my hair into a messy bundle, and I squealed with glee, breaking the magical silence of the room. Together we turned, opened the door, and walked back into the world outside.

It must be about fifteen years since you showed me the magical process of darkroom development. So much has changed since then. But the biggest change of all is with you.

It’s like you’ve disappeared back into that dark room, working quietly on a project, behind a door than cannot open while work is in progress.  I’m aching to join you, but to do so is forbidden.

Instead, I’m left standing here, on the opposite side of the door, blinking in the light of day and waiting for you to return.  But you don’t. And, although it’s hard to wrap my head around, you won’t.

I switch between hiding from the world and burying myself in exciting new experiences.  And whenever I do the latter, I bring my camera, and take photographs.  My first thought is always “what would dad say about this image?”.  And with that thought, I take photos as if each moment captured is a snapshot being sent directly to you. As if there is a magical space between my world and yours, through which I cannot pass, but my photos can.