PERSONAL SPACE
Ten years ago, almost to the day, my father died without warning. He was getting off a plane in Sydney. I was 22 and living in the south of Spain at the time, a place where my biggest qualms were whether the orange juice was pre-squeezed, or if my breakfast bodega was being stingy with the jamón. I woke in Seville to a missed call from my mother. She rang again. And that time I didn’t miss it.
The pain of losing him so suddenly, and of being on the other side of the world when it happened, is still there. But like me over the years, it’s changed shape – the grief morphing from heart-piercing attacks on all senses to dull aches and pains, skittering shadows or light fogginess, depending on the day. Now there are two distinct time-markers in my life: “before Dad died” and “after Dad died”. And those chapters continue to frame my relationships, new and
