A constant knot sits in my throat and my hands are too weak to untie it.

Dad -

I distinctly remember the confused and muddled racket that would pour out from each of the classrooms at school when the final bell rang.

A big smile lay across your face as you waited by the car. I had been bullied because of what you drove. It was never flash enough for the other kids, but to me nothing could compare - it was my favourite car.

When autumn eventually came around, it's chill travelled straight to my bones, rendering my thin summer jacket useless.

You remember the one I'm talking about right? You said it looked as though somebody had died in it - but It was yours a long time ago, and it fit me well. I loved it more than any of the other jackets I had.

Years ago I had found it funny to swing and dangle from the brittle tree branches in our favourite park, but you didn't see it the same way as I did. "Those trees have feelings as well. They live and breathe the same as us. Be kind to them, be gentle."

You were absolutely right, dad.

Maybe I didn't fully comprehend what you meant until I got older, but its so important you told me that. You should know that I carry those words wherever I go.

I have shared kindness with the people in the streets, the workers in the shops, and the passers-by in their cars.

You taught me that they all need to feel love just as much as I do.

Speaking of the park, It came to my mind that just a few years ago, we had those great big leaves fall on us from the bulky arms of an oak tree.

One of them had floated down into your hair, and as soon as I saw it I had to fight back the urge to burst out laughing - because you didn't notice that it was sat on your head as you chatted away. It's orange hue was almost blinding compared to the dull grey whispers of hair that you had.

It was only when my eyes kept fluttering upwards that you had realised.

"How long has that been in my hair? You didn't think to tell me?"

You tried to act annoyed but I could see that you had a grin spread across your face.

I loved spending days at the park with you, and the weather would never sway our plans to sit on our favourite bench and share homemade sandwiches. The air was misty and fragrant with the scent of rain during that last month. Its smell, comforting to me as I sipped coffee out of a cheap plastic mug.

But then we stopped going to there. You didn't like it anymore you said. Why? I asked.

You never turned back to answer me.

I couldn't forget all the long talks that we used to have around the fire at night.

You spoke with an infectious excitement in your voice. It was special to me when we spent hours trading stories with one another, until the tiredness would come to send us indoors.

The fire doesn't burn as brightly without you beside it, no matter how much gasoline I add.

"Is that enough, dad?"

"Looks good. Now step back over here. Do you think you can strike this match for me?"

You gave me that matchbox to keep afterwards. I could see you had written our names on top of it with thick marker.

Matches were how you lit your cigarettes as well.

As a kid I used to love watching you strike and hold the flame between your hands - all that smoke. I used to say you looked like a steam-train, and you would pretend to blow the whistle every time.

I never got bored of it.

You reached the final station too soon, dad.

The hardest thing for me now is walking into your office, tucked away at the top of the garden. I'd go there to ask for your advice when I didn't know what to do.

I told you about the first time I felt love one spring morning.

Your chair swivelled around as soon as the words came out of my mouth.

"That's great son, tell me all about it!"

I felt your big arms embrace me in a hug afterwards, and for a minute the whole world seemed to shrink into the distance, something small that I didn't need to face any longer. "I'm so proud of you."

I wish that we could have stayed like that forever.

But that chair too, is now empty. There are books on the shelves that you will never read, and your favourite pen will never rest in the crevice of your hand, or pinched between your calloused fingers.

You wrote with it one last time.

Your jacket sits draped over my shoulders after all this time, and it feels like you're just beside me. I swear that I can feel your hand resting on my shoulder, and occasionally, I feel a small squeeze. I know that its you, letting me know that everything is going to be okay some day.

I wish that I could have been there for you the same way that you were there for me.

I will never let anybody feel as alone and helpless as you did all those years ago.

You'll never get this - but I'm writing it because I love you, and I still think about how different things would be if you were around.

Today, I sit in your chair, and the winds swift movement is shaking the branches of the tree in the garden.

Its was gentle to them once. But one day it decided that It wasn't going to be so kind anymore.

Creaks and groans come from the tree, its roots rumbling and its limbs whipping into one another.

I wonder how long until it falls over?

I'll miss you forever.

A constant knot sits in my throat and my hands are too weak to untie it.

- Henry