Dear Dad

I have come across a lot of stories recently about people losing loved ones, and a common theme is that there are things they wish they'd said, but now it's too late.

I was thinking about this today as I was cycling along, and I remembered something I wish I'd said to my dad while he was still alive. I don't know why this particular incident came to mind, and I did say something at the time, and quite loudly if I remember rightly. But I never asked the really important question.

So here it is. An open letter to my dad.

Dear Dad,

I know you're dead, but there's something I want to ask you. It's about something that happened when I was about 12. Well, it's about several things, really, but this is the one incident that sticks in my mind.

I'd got into the truck, ready to go down to the farm, and you casually tossed (yes, TOSSED) a brown paper package at me. "Hold this," you said.

(What were you THINKING?)

"Can't it go in the back?" I asked, and you said, "No, you hold it. I don't want it to rattle around."

So I held it. (I was a good girl. Why did you do this to me?) You got into the truck and off we went.

As we were driving along we were chatting. You went quite fast, not slowing down for bumps. (YOU DID NOT SLOW DOWN FOR BUMPS.) And at some point I started throwing the brown paper package from one hand to the other. Then I accidentally dropped it on the floor, and you frowned and said, casually,

"Oh, I've been meaning to say; you'd better be careful with that."

"Sorry," I said. "I hope I didn't do any damage. What is it, anyway?"

"You would know if it was damaged," you replied, and snorted. (You thought it was funny!) "It's detonators. And they're a bit old, so a bump could set them off. That's why I asked you to hold them."

I froze, and clutched the package to my chest to keep it safe.

You glanced sideways at me. "And don't let them get too warm," you said.

That was when I got upset. By the time we got to the farm my arms were aching from holding the detonators as far away from my body as possible and trying not to move them when we went over a bump. I had aged several years. You thought it was funny, and kept telling me not to worry, it was just a bunch of old detonators and we would blow them up on the farm. (UNSTABLE, OLD detonators, Dad. And you'd given them to your precious 12-year-old daughter to hold.)

But Dad, I SAW what happened when you decided, another time, to blow up some old detonators. Because they were dangerous, you said. Better not leave them lying around, you said. The kids might have an accident, you said. (IT WAS JUST AN EXCUSE TO MAKE A BIG BANG AND SCARE THE SHIT OUT OF GRANDMA.) You blew them up in the shed, you big dummy, and I saw the hole they blew through the neatly stacked pile of new rubbish bags, and the black marks around the walls. I saw your singed eyebrows. I heard you too, as you came into the house.

"Whoops! That made a bigger bang than I expected!" you said. I thought you'd never stop laughing. It wasn't one bang, Dad, it was a series of bangs, and Grandma and I thought the house was being attacked by someone with a machine gun. (No, we didn't know what a machine gun sounded like, but we imagined that's what it sounded like.)

I won't start on the gelignite. At least you never asked me to hold the gelignite.

Dad? Dad? Are you listening to me?

You were always doing stuff like that, Dad. Maybe you thought you were making up for the lack of movies and TV. Maybe you thought that since we never got to see James Bond confronting a ticking time bomb you'd supply us with first-hand experience of what it felt like. Or maybe the detonators weren't that old and you knew they were pretty safe but just wanted an excuse to blow something up, and you were teasing me. I don't know. I'm sure you had good intentions. (I never thought you didn't care about us, Dad. If anything, you cared too much.)

But Dad, there is something I've always wanted to ask you but never did, because every time the topic came up I was too mad to be coherent. And then you went and died and it was too late, and I've never been able to figure it out.

WHAT IS SO DAMNED FUNNY ABOUT EXPLOSIONS?

Your loving daughter,
Badaunt

P.S. I'll admit the detonators did make very satisfactory bangs when they went off, but I still didn't think they were funny.

P.P.S. Dad? Just one more thing. After your funeral your friends kept coming to visit, to tell us how sorry they were. (You made a lot of seriously eccentric friends in your last years, Dad. Where did you find them?) When they learned my name they knew all about me. It was shocking how much they knew. They told me you were really proud of me, and that you talked about me all the time. I had to pretend that I knew that.

But Dad, I'd thought you were ashamed of me. That's why I told you so little about my life after I left home. How come you never told me?