R.I.P.

I can't sleep tonight.  It's 2am on the dot.

On 12/01/01, or January 12th 2001, my biological father, Aiden Lattimore, was found frozen to death on a park bench in Boston, MA.  He was 49 years old. 

He and my mother separated sometime between January and August 1984. He left Surrey, England, to pursue a better life in Boston. She never followed.  In the inbetween years, between then and 2001, his alcoholism came the better of him, and he became an alcoholic. He lost everything and became your typical homeless guy in the park. 

He drank himself to death on a freezing night.

Of course there are more details to the story.

But please, don't assume every homeless person is a dirty, crack addicted street rat. 

One of them was my dad.

And I'm sitting here tonight wishing, praying I could do anything, anything, to have one moment in time to meet him, speak to him, I would do anything right now. And it's never going to happen.

Aiden - Danny - my father - was part of an amazing family, a seriously amazing family. But he was for whatever reason never able to resist the temptation of alcohol, which eventually to his untimely death.

I can't even describe the emotions I'm feeling right now. All I know is I'm typing this through tears that won't stop, just wishing for one moment with my father. One tiny moment in time is all I ask.

It's only been 18 months since I learnt all this. 18 months which brought to an end to a lifetime of searching for an answer.  My mother never chose to explain anything to me. I understand her choice. But at the brink of 23, I made contact and got some of the answers I have been searching for my whole life.

Thank you. You know who you are who found me.

This whole blog probably makes no sense. I'm just rambling because I'm tired and emotional and it's 2am and I'm crying and thinking and wondering and thinking "what if" and feeling sorry for myself, and sorry for him, and just sorry.

I'm sorry.

What if I'd tried to find you earler? What if, when they told me I was too young and it would cause too much hearache, if I'd listened to myself and hired that PI? It would cause heartache to them, but what about them?? What about you?? What about US????? 

I still remember being at the bottom of our stairs in Horsham, with Justine, asking my grandmother to help me find you. I was 12. Too young. Think of the disrupt it would cause. Think of Ian. Think of my mum. What about me? What about you?

I know now you were probably married at that point. I had, still have, an amazing dad. That will never change. I'm sure you would have loved him. I'm positive. He's such a great guy. 

But what I would give to spend a moment with you.

What did she tell you about me? What happened between you? When I was 7, the first time I recall asking her about you, I was in the bath, at 85 Circle Road. She told me you were dead. Wishful thinking, huh?!

And that's it. 

I have photos sneaked from her albums. Photos of you outside the old house on Circle Road, before I was born. With William and Mishca, the dogs. I knew those dogs. It's something we have in common.

I have photos my nan has given me. She has more, but she's scared that if she loans them to me for too long my mum will notice and start asking questions. I have them all scanned, but seriously. Who gives a damn?

She doesn't, that's for sure.

I don't mean to slam her. She has been a great mother. She has worked so hard to put me through good schools, to teach me to read and write and speak goddamn French since before I could walk. She has been fantastic.

Until the last few years, which I'm sure you know because they say that up there angels watch over us and I'm certain you're seeing us and watching us. I've had pretty good luck the last few years, very bad luck and good luck at the same time - is that you?

Do you even know about me?

I  had an email from your niece, Jen, over the weekend. They have your wallet. That's all that was found with you. That, and your watch. Uncle Tom says he has two watches, at least he did when I spoke to him 18 months ago.. He gave some more of your stuff away, because of course they didn't know about me.

Why would they? For all you know I didn't exist.

But she says she is going to send me your wallet.  I don't know if I want her to. I mean, I want it, I want it so much, just to have something that is yours, but I'm scared of it getting lost in the post.

I want to go to Australia and get it all in person. To have your brother give it to me. That would mean so much to me.

I have the gold bottle opener thingy that was yours, it's a golf knight with a shield in a stand, it's wierd and really quite ugly but it was yours and therefore it's special.

I also have your Encyclopaedias, (spelling?!) but they're at mum's, probably covered in dog hair and mould. I've just sent her a text asking for them.  Wonder what she'll make of that.

So this has turned into something of an open letter to a ghost? A deceased person? You? My dad? What are you now?

I'm going to go now. Maybe I'll continue this, maybe I won't. I hope I do, but I'm a bit random like that. Comme ci, comme Ça...or whatever.

Just to let you know that you're gone from this Earth but you're not forgotten, and you never will be.

If anyone ever reads this, which they probably won't considering my blog has a readership of zero...

Please don't pass by every homeless person on the street. They have life stories too.  Something I never appreciated until my father was one of them.