Ten years

It is ten years to the day since my father died in Melbourne. I can hardly believe it. I have his photograph on my desk at home, and another one hangs in my office. And I have any number of others in my head. The photo in the office is a head-and-shoulders portrait that was commissioned when he was elected president of the Australian Club. It’s complicated, because although it certainly looks like him, and moreover at the peak of his professional life when my memories of Dad are the vividest, it doesn’t really capture his gentleness and good humor. It’s rather over-formal. Still, it is a fine thing to have Dad watching over my shoulder at all times. I miss him very much.