Dad died, at the age of 29, from long-term heart problems. I was a mere one and a half years old when he prematurely pegged it.

Being a baby, I obviously have no memories of him whatsoever; all I can go on are photos and other people’s stories. People say I look like him, sadly for me this means I’ve inherited his bushy eyebrows!

I could lie here, add a bit of drama, and tell you he’s always on my mind. He isn’t. However, sometimes I catch myself wondering how life would’ve turned out if he had been around. How brilliant it would’ve been to avoid the chain of events his death triggered!

How can you miss somebody you never knew? But I do miss him at times. And as this was the first thing that sprung to mind when I came across this site I guess it’s pretty important for me to have some closure.

The effects of his death on me aren’t obvious, at first glance. Scratch the surface though and the signs are there, etched so finely onto this heart of mine. Recently, I realised that I’ve got a deathly fear of dying young (I won’t moan about turning thirty; I’ll breathe a sigh of relief!) and I’m uneasy about getting close to men romance-wise. Dad was taken from us so young, what’s to say history won’t repeat itself?

In 20 years, I’ve never visited to pay my respects. I’m not even entirely sure where he’s buried; Dad was always a touchy subject to raise in conversation so I never bothered.

So. Find out where he’s laid to rest, visit with flowers, and strike down a few demons from the past. Bish bash bosh, just like that!