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Meanings

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By Radical Rhymes

I want to talk about meanings in this article and the plasticity of meanings. The way in which we CAN choose to alter or control meanings to make our lives better or perhaps merely more tolerable. I won’t be arguing that we have absolute control of this of course, because that would be too essentialist, however, it’s possible that we sometimes have more control than we think.

Anyway… I could go on qualifying this all day and say nothing at all, so let’s crack on.

My Dad loved Christmas. He adored it. The whole thing. From the buying of presents (he had trouble not blowing the surprise, something I’ve sadly inherited), to putting up decorations, and on to the big day itself. On Christmas morning he would wake up at 4am and noisily rake out the grate – something he never usually did – just to wake us all up. Then we would have the innocent expression on his face which said: ‘Oh, you’re up! It’s about time!”

If anyone loved Christmas more than my Dad, I would love to see them, answers on a postcard please.

Rewinding time now to my sixteenth Christmas. Probably about 7.30pm on Christmas eve, sitting around the living room with my parents, sister and uncle and auntie. Dad and Uncle Des were laughing about snoring, teasing their wives about how terrible they both were. I was sitting on the couch joining in while dodging the playful slaps my mum was aiming at me.

Suddenly, my dad started to snore, which only made my family laugh harder. But I knew something was wrong. His eyes rolled into his head and he started to convulse. Before anyone could move, I ran to the phone and rang 999. The ambulance operator thought it was a hoax, so I passed the receiver to my panic-stricken mum and ran out of the door.

At the top of the hill we had a fire and ambulance station. It wasn’t far and I was fast. My mind was clear and turbulent, my heart was racing, and I already knew that it was too late. I crashed headlong into the doors of the ambulance garage and hammered at them yelling at the top of my lungs for help.

There was someone inside and they shouted at me to go away, in much ruder terms. They obviously also thought it was a joke. But when the guy opened the door, he recognised immediately that I wasn’t playing. He told me to go to my corner and he’d be there as soon as possible.

Standing there waiting was so incredibly strange. It was torturous but I felt I was at least doing something, and I could not face going home at that stage. Not without some support at least. The wonderful paramedics arrived in no time and I ran ahead indicating my house.

But Dad was gone. I knew it, of course I did. Our GP arrived later and told me that it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been there and present, the heart attack was just too severe. I refused to let them carry Dad out to the ambulance. First, I took all his valuables as they directed, and then I carried him out there.

He was gone. In my arms it was so very clear. His body was a completely empty vessel. After everyone had left us, I stood in the kitchen and fell into my uncle’s arms. There was a terrible keening sound, animalistic, painful to hear. It took a while to get my head around that it was coming from me.

That Christmas is a blank now, and it was a while before I loved Christmas again. Funnily enough that was due to my uncle. I was studying to go to university, and sitting in the dining room, actively avoiding my auntie and uncle. Another Christmas Eve.

I think, somewhere inside I blamed my uncle for Dad’s death. If only he hadn’t made him laugh so hard… totally irrational but an unconscious judgement fostered by pain. The truth is I loved it when they got together. Their old war stories got more elaborate and outrageous with every telling.

This year though Uncle Des was not to be denied. He came into the dining room, sat down at the table and refused to leave. In the end I had to acknowledge him, and with great kindness and very gently, he told me that my Dad wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t want me to cut him off, or to feel sad about such a joyous Holiday.

It was definitive. I realised that he was right! I promptly put the books way and went into the living room to join everyone else. It was one weight lifted.

These days I make an effort to enjoy Christmas, especially now that mum has also passed away. There will always be a wistfulness around this time of year, but I choose to embrace the meaning my Dad gave to Christmas. And when I let go and really laugh with my family now, I feel him close by.

Radical Rhymes is a professional artist working with a range of media – predominantly animal/human portraits and landscapes – including, most recently, hand painted furniture. You can see his work on Instagram Radicalrhymes1969 or on Twitter @RhymesRadical.

For commissions, please contact him on Twitter via Direct Message or by email at: radicalrhymes@outlook.com His work is also available to buy on Etsy

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