So I say, Thank you for the music, for giving it to me

Missing Dad hits hard, even after all these years. The questions I have linger, unspoken, lost in the silence of his absence. But in those moments when I reach out, I can almost feel his presence—I can see the twinkle in his eye, the smile at my folly.

Here I am, in the heart of New York, the city alive below me. The Manhattan skyline looms tall, a monument to time and history. Classical music fills the air, a tribute to the past, a comfort in the chaos of the moment.

My day unfolds with the dawn, the fogbound Hudson a backdrop to my thoughts. A podcast on Stoicism guides my steps, Marcus Aurelius whispering truths from centuries before in the early hours. As the day progresses, coffee fuels my endeavours, the laptop's speakers a symphony of sounds. And then, like a familiar refrain, a tune brings my dad back to me — Edward Elgar's Nimrod.

Dad was a man of the skies, his life intertwined with the Royal Air Force and the mighty Nimrod. I remember those days spent in his company, the scent of hydraulic fluid and tobacco that lingered on his flying suit, a testament to his world.

I was entranced by this military life and as a teenager I was able to get a glimpse into it. I joined him and his crew on sorties, I saw the camaraderie, the professionalism, and a lot of the Atlantic Ocean. The Nimrod was developed and modified from a 1950s jet airliner and was found to be an effective Cold War warrior. With a reach of thousands of miles and able to stay airborne for hours, it would prowl the vast seas below, watching, and ready to strike. It’s prey – Submarines, Russian Submarines. The game of cat and mouse intricately weaved between two very determined foes.

My excitement builds as we take to the skies, the roar of the Rolls Royce Spey engines a symphony of power and grace. As we rise above the rugged cliffs of Cornwall, I know that this is where he belonged. I know that he loved his job, that he was proud of the work and found great meaning in it. A sense of service was ingrained in him. Yet, he was more than an RAF Officer, he was a husband, a father and grandfather. He loved life and shared stories as easily as he would share a drink.

I miss those stories of places so far away from our home. The names would roll out,  Mahajanga, Changi, Valetta, Reykjavik, Sigonella and so many more.  Each exotic sounding post would have a tale, his flying logbooks would come out and he would sit and go through them line by line. Those simple and formal looking sentences would come to life. He would explain the sortie, the history of the country and what they were doing. Crew mates’ names unknown to me as much of the destinations they would visit would slip from his tongue and a fond smile accompanied a tale of mischief. As I sit in 2024 listening to the world news, Aden, and Houthis the topic of the day, my father was there in that region in the 1960s, the last fling of the British Empire. Today just like 60 years ago, trouble and geopolitics are as intertwined as the shipping routes and movement of oil and cargo through the Persian Gulf.

I have so many stories and memories, gifts that he bestowed on me to pass down to my son. Who I hope will one day reminisce fondly about me. Over time I will take finger to keyboard and record them. Yet for now. as the final notes of Elgar slowly fade out, I see the coffin slowly roll towards the furnace, just as it did nine years ago.