On Easter Sunday I travelled reluctantly to Sunderland to see my dad. My reluctance wasn’t founded in any disdain towards him, but in the overwhelming sense of negativity that was written in the walls of his two-bedroom apartment, in which he lived alone. I had a drink of his alcohol-free ginger beer, which he always stocked in abundance since the start of his recovery from an on-going battle with alcoholism. My drink was in a seasonally inappropriate Christmas-themed glass that I made sure to wash the dust off of, prior to consumption. He rarely had guests.

As we spoke, he struggled to locate the right words to communicate coherently. This wasn’t uncommon since his most recent stroke. I tediously played his guitar while he spent time with my sister and niece, and we left after around an hour. He died later that night.

[…]

Read in full in The Northern Correspondent #8