I've spent a good deal of time since the end of last year and the beginning of this one doing things devoted to Dad.
He died on the first day of Covid-19 lockdown, at home with me as he drew his final breath, absolutely unaware of the global shitstorm that had taken hold in the preceding months. His memorial will be held on the anniversary of his death, which is now, just two months away on March 24th.
For a man who had been as dynamic and interested in everything as he, it was alarming to see Dad uncertain and vulnerable. He'd suddenly, over months, withdrawn into himself: into a twilight world where people living and dead mixed freely - all the ones he loved together. A place where the rest of the world simply held no relevance or resonance.
It couldn't be said that the disease left him in a peaceful state, but we did what we could to keep him calm and comfortable until the time came for the metronome to finally fall silent.
When it did I was left shell shocked. For months. Ten months, actually. And it's only now that I'm able to start attending to his things. I found a letter he wrote me - the most precious, beautiful, touching gift in the world. I've uncovered pieces of his writing I will include in his eulogy. Although I've continued to try and paint, my head has been full of Dad.
Dad and his baglama. The hole he has left is vast beyond words. I don't know quite how I will do the eulogy. And the memorial. And tidying the effects. It's hard when it seems impossible he is gone.