May 16th, 2025

The Day After The Funeral

Dear Dad,

It’s the day after your funeral.

Wow.

That still feels strange to write.

When I walked into the church for your funeral, I wasn’t prepared for how full it was. Every seat was taken. It was filled with people you worked with, our family, your sisters and brothers, nieces, nephews, cousins, and lifelong friends. There were neighbours who had known you for years, people who shared fences, quick chats over the driveway, a wave, a joke, a helping hand. There were friends from different chapters of your life and people I didn’t even recognise but clearly knew you well. And then there were your golf mates. Nearly half the church was made up of your friends from the Gosnells Golf Course. Seeing them all there stopped me in my tracks. It showed me just how many lives you were part of and how quietly, but deeply, you mattered to so many.

This whole month has felt like I’ve been moving in slow motion, from the moment we lost you to yesterday, when we said goodbye properly. Everything has happened so fast, yet somehow nothing feels real. Our family has been through so much in such a short space of time and even with all of that, life doesn’t stop.

I still have kids to keep going for. Parenting doesn’t pause for grief. I had some time off, but I needed to go back to work. I didn’t really have a choice. Work has been kind though, especially Di. She bought the kids a beautiful book called The Invisible String. I read it to them and it hit harder than I expected.

The kids don’t really understand. All they know is that you’re not here anymore. They sit in your chair now, the one you never let them sit on, and somehow that breaks my heart more than anything else. I don't think the kids have seen me cry this much. I wonder what they are thinking? 

I don’t feel like I’ve had proper time to grieve. I’m still trying to wrap my head around how sick you actually were. I think that part will take a long time to settle in me.

Most mornings lately, I’ve been getting up around five and going for walks around the neighbourhood. It’s quiet. No noise. No expectations. Just me and my thoughts. It helps clear my head, even if my heart still feels heavy.

We’re moving again. We have to leave our rental and head into a new home. I know we’re lucky to have somewhere to go, but it still hurts. You’re not going to see it. You’re missing the big things, new schools, assemblies, milestones. That part really sucks.

It’s Avery’s birthday in a few days. I don’t feel like celebrating at all. I will try my hardest to go through the motions for her, because she is turning ten and she deserves that. I have to. But inside, I feel empty. Then it’s Brett’s birthday at the end of the month and all I can really focus on is packing up this house ready to move. You could say I’m very distracted. I’ll pull myself together for the celebrations and sing Hip Hip Hooray, even though you aren’t here.

I had a glass of wine earlier this month with my friend Jess. She lost her dad when we were only twenty. For the first time, I truly understood her grief. That made me sad in a different way. Sad that I wasn’t there for her back then, because now I know how deep this cuts.

I’ve received flowers, messages, and so much love from people in my life, including messages from people I haven’t spoken to in years. That has meant a lot. But the hardest part is knowing that after this, the messages will stop, and the world will keep moving, even though mine feels like it has cracked open.

Dad, planning your funeral was hard. I didn’t feel included, even though technically I was. I was asked to organise things, and then those things didn’t happen. I really wanted your wake at the golf club. It felt right. It didn’t go the way I imagined sending you off. I came home after your wake and cried in my husband’s arms. I am glad you are resting in peace now.

But yesterday, I think you had a laugh.

You arrived late to your own funeral because they took you to the wrong church. For a moment, I thought maybe they had taken you to the golf course instead. That actually made me smile.

The funeral itself was overwhelming. I felt like I was wearing the biggest mask, handing out booklets, greeting people, being on. All I really wanted was to be held and let all my tears out. But I held it together. At one point, while Brett was dealing with the kids, I sat by myself. I moved seats, and the first people I truly felt safe with were my dancing friends. They showed up for me in a quiet, steady way.

Now that it’s over, life just continues. We’re moving house. I’m doing the vacate clean myself. That was the last house you would have been in, and that hurts more than I expected.

I know, deep down, that things will get easier. I believe that.

But right now, I’m still hurting.

I just miss you.

Love,

your favourite daughter,

Tara

PS. Marley spoke at your eulogy. Seven years old, Dad, and you would have been so proud. She loves you so much. So do Avery and Harrison.

Eulogy for Dad (Patty Q)

“Hi everyone. Thank you for being here today to celebrate my dad, or as many knew him, Pat or Patty Q.

Dad was one of a kind. Funny, playful, cheeky, and full of confidence. He was a man of few words, speaking only when he truly needed to. He didn’t waste time with small talk. He let his actions speak for him. When he did say something, you listened, because it always carried weight. Whether it was a quiet observation, a piece of advice, or telling me the latest series on Netflix he was watching.

He had a laugh that could fill a room, and I would laugh along too, especially when he was trying to tell a joke. Sometimes he’d start with the punchline by accident, or he’d be laughing too hard to finish the story, which somehow just made it even funnier.

He loved golf. I mean really loved golf. I think he would have happily lived on a golf course, as long as it had a decent wine list and great company with his golfing friends at the Gosnells Golf Course. Some of my fondest memories are of him coming home from golfing trips overseas, grinning ear to ear. One year he brought back gifts for me. Spice Girls, Hanson, and Backstreet Boys merch. Truly the holy trinity of 90s teen dreams.

He was also the man who took me to play golf after school one day. Well, I watched and walked with him. I was excited until I saw the outdoor toilet. There was a spider in it. I refused to go. And I, well, I wet myself. Dad just laughed, like a big kid, in that classic this will be a story forever kind of way. And he was right. He told everyone.

Dad was also a brilliant cook. I remember him teaching me how to make a Burmese beef curry while I wrote everything down. Somehow the instructions went like this. Grab a wine glass. Get the wine from the fridge and pour it. Take a sip. Yes, he loved good but cheap wine.

More than anything, he was a loving Papa. He absolutely adored his grandkids Marley, Avery, and Harrison, and they adored him right back. He was larger than life in so many ways, and now that he’s gone, there is a very big space that will never be quite the same.

But I will always carry his humour, his warmth, and his voice in my heart. Probably telling a joke out of order.

My Poem to You, Dad

The One Who Got Me

You were the one who laughed first,

The spark in my wit,

The quiet nod when the world missed

The joke I had just lit.

While others stood puzzled,

You would grin ear to ear,

A shared kind of madness

That only we would hear.

Now silence sits heavy

Where laughter once lay,

And I ache for your chuckle

At the end of the day.

I try to be brave,

To keep smiling through,

But no one quite gets me

The way you used to.

You were not just my dad.

You were my best fan,

My partner in nonsense,

My I get it man.

So I will keep telling jokes,

Though they might miss the mark,

Hoping somehow you are listening, laughing

From out in the dark.

Because grief has no punchline,

No twist to reveal,

Just a love that still lingers

And never will heal.

We love you, Dad.

Thanks for every laugh.”