My Dad died eleven years ago.  Eleven years sounds like a long time and the pain of him dying isn’t as raw as it was at the start, but I miss Dad more today than I ever did.  I often think of all the life changes I wish I could share with him and how I dream of just one more day with my Dad.

In my dreams I know exactly what we would do together.  We would lazily wander through the Freo Markets smelling the coffee beans and buying boxes of fruit and veggies.  Dad loved the markets and fruit in his opinion should only be bought direct from the grower and by the box.  I think it reminded him of how they shopped in the markets back at his home in Italy.  For lunch we would go across to the Asian food hall for his favourite cuisine followed by a walk across the park for a beer or two at Little Creatures.  We would sit outside laughing, chatting and relaxing in the sun before heading up the street to the continental deli for coppa, prosciutto and a tub of olives.

Our final stop would be my favourite, an Italian café for a short black and a generous slice of tiramisu – which I would get to eat the majority of as Dad doesn’t like cream.   We would be surrounded by the smell of Nonna’s special sauce and red and white tablecloths.  It would remind Dad of Italy and we would have an afternoon of storytelling about his life growing up there.  These were my favourite times spent with my Dad.  I remember when I was living in Sydney Dad flew in for a weekend visit.  We hung out the whole  weekend together with four hours on the Saturday afternoon being spent in a small café at the Rocks sharing stories over multiple short blacks and two slices of cake.

I cherish that afternoon more than anything in my life.  What I wouldn’t give to have just one more day with my Dad, my dream day.

I wonder if I died would anyone miss me?  I wonder if I died would anyone have a dream day with me?