It has been a week since the funeral. Since then I’ve been off ill; I picked up some sort of cough and dizziness. My thoughts are jumbled and my flashbacks are powerful.

I remember in the 1980s when my grandfather passed away, and a vivid dream when I thought he was saying goodbye to me. I figured my father would do the same. So I waited to see him in my dreams that night. Nearly a month has passed and I’m still searching for him in my dreams. A couple of times I thought I was close – a voice called out.

Another time I asked for some guidance before I slept. I woke up in the early hours, my occasional hallucinations returning as I tried to make sense of the unusual room I was in. I looked towards the ceiling and saw a small typed font. I struggled to see the words. I squinted. It looked like write in luminous white.

I didn’t want to carry on. But I felt guilty about feeling this way because so many people love me. I left my library job, which I enjoyed, because I didn’t want to leave my flat. Not until I saw my father one last time. I wanted to tell him about the my most powerful memory of him… when he taught me to ride my bicycle.

He ran behind me holding on to the luggage carrier. I picked up momentum but was still afraid of falling. I shrieked don’t let go! He said I’m not. The afternoon passed in this fashion. A few times I stopped feeling his weight on my back wheel. I shreiked again don’t let go! He reminded me he hadn’t. But his voice was further away. Perhaps five metres behind me. I wobbled.

I’m still holding on.

And that was enough. I felt safe and I carried on pedalling.