Image by AI based on photos of dad and me

Almost six months ago to the day – on 23rd December 2025 – my elderly parents spent a full day on French trains, travelling from where they live near at the foot of the Pyrénées Orientales to where I live on the French-Swiss border by Geneva, holding the news that had been broken to them moments before boarding, as they were standing on the station platform, awaiting their delayed train, that their eldest child, my brother James, had died by suicide hours earlier.

As I greeted them at Bellegarde station, also having received the same “terrible news”, directly from my dad during that awful day…
As I gathered and held them in my arms…
As I wondered just how they, just how we, could ever do this – again…
As I wondered how on earth they had even survived the day…
As I attempted to grasp at a sense of imagining the shock, despair, numbness and devastation that they were bound to be experiencing…
I simply wanted to wipe the day away.
Wipe it out of existence, out of our minds, out of our history, and
Wrap them up in soft blankets and protective cotton wool.

Over the coming days, weeks and months, I often wondered what it must have been like to spend a day travelling, hopping on and off trains, in the presence of only strangers, holding that knowledge. Having to contain it. Possibly not feeling able to talk about it in earshot of so many people close by. After all, “even in France”, everyone understands English.

All I could do was glimpse into what that day must have been like for them. But I could only glimpse.

Today, I am getting a greater glimpse, though still nothing like what it was for my parents, I am sure. Some months ago, as I began booking trains for my summer break, which begins with helping co-facilitate a writing retreat fairly close to my parents’ house, I contacted my parents to see about stopping off for a bit on the way. I learned that my mother would be in the Geneva area at her own writing retreat, and that dad would be on his own for a few days, before meeting up with mum in the UK for the annual family “cousinade” held near Bewdley, where dad’s sister, my aunt, lives. I suggested I come a little earlier and that dad and I have a few days together. Going on gentle runs or walks. Playing piano duets. Just hanging out. I wrote an email, having explored train timetables and my own schedule and, not wanting to overstay my welcome, said, “Dad – I can come for a few days – shall I come for three or even four days?” His words back were warm and clear: “Come for four, lass”.

Lass – the affectionate title that Mike had also called me, reflecting northern English roots.

I booked the tickets, and imagined a gentle slide into a long period away from home – consisting now of such rich treats as time with my dad, writing retreat, “cousinade”, walking and resting in Wales, resting and walking in Ireland, then heading home – hopefully to find both pets still alive. Never a given with an almost 15 year old doggo.

But dad died seven and a half weeks ago. I knew that I would need to decide whether or not to maintain the train booking. I knew that if I honoured the trip I’d be spending time alone in that house, mum being in Geneva. I knew that the missing of dad would feel greater, real-er, if I was “home alone”. Never have I spent more than a few hours alone in their house. There’s always been at least one of them there. Even if they were out for the day and I arrived in their absence, they’d arrive within hours. But not this time.

Not wanting the kerfuffle of changing tickets in mid-summer France, I chose to continue with my plans.

And so I find myself spending the day in trains and stations, travelling south down the French train tracks instead of north, in the mid-summer brightness and sweltering heat rather than in mid-winter darkness and bitter cold.

The grip around my throat tightens. My shoulders slump further forward. My heart feels thinner and wider, more brittle, broken and fragile. My tummy does perpetual anxiety backflips. And my exhausted body, crumpled with lack of decent sleep now for months, wonders how she would be if she had to do anything more than sit all day long. Thank goodness for train travel. At least I get to sit for long periods.

I don’t know how it will feel to arrive at my parents’ home, usually so welcoming. Mum left only yesterday. The house will feel lived-in, thank goodness. The bed I sleep in was last slept in by me, since I was there only two weeks ago. With a bit of luck, mum will have honoured her promise not to change the sheets between my visits. I will wash them as I prepare to leave, for the next visitor. Fortunately there is a nice stream of visitors for my mum given (a) the summer holidays and (b) that her grandchildren are all old enough now to travel independently and be capable of offering help to her, rather than needing too much tending.

It’s definitely a new experience.

Having my first Father’s Day without an alive dad.
Spending time in the house alone, not for hours but for days.
Knowing I will never hear his deep, warm voice again, as he says “Hi lass” with such evident pleasure, as I announce myself on the home phone line.

There are many firsts I have already survived, having spent ten days with mum recently, already post-loss.

Going to dad’s favourite restaurant at the Col de l’Ouillat without him.
Running through the woods near their house.
Playing his piano, with its too low, fixed height bench seat that I always need to put a couple of cushions on so I can be at the right height.
Reading through emails and documents, files and folders, shelves of books, cabinets of paperwork.

Perhaps I have done the hardest stuff already.
Perhaps I now have to do the loneliest stuff.

And then, as if to remind me that I had done well to honour my decision to maintain my trip, hard as it would be, Rosemerry sent this poem today, which I have chosen to read as if I were talking to myself. I take it as a reminder that I don’t need to soothe the sadness. I just need to be brave enough to be with it.

Forgive Me For Wanting To Soothe

Sometimes a wound must stay a wound.
—James Crews, “Wound”

Sometimes I remember a wound
must stay a wound. Why then,
this impulse to bring you a vase of blue
larkspur, white lilies and a blessing
instead of sitting with you in the dark
and letting what is dark be dark.
When I am brave enough to see
beyond my longing to soothe,
all I want is to be with you in the dark.
To steep together in the uncomfortable ache.
To quietly meet you in the wounded place
so you know you are not alone.
Perhaps I will always send you lilies,
but let me also trust how necessary it is,
the open ear, this tenderness,
this willingness to be with,
more gift than any flower.

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer