A Eulogy for a Father, from His Daughter

I am NAME, and I was HIS daughter.

I am not going to try to give you all of him. I want to give you ONE THING.

ONE STORY, told from where you were standing — your age, your height, what you could see.

He was THE TRAIT, and he was that with me before I understood it was a choice.

He leaves NAME EVERYONE.

CLOSING LINE, spoken to him, in your own vocabulary.

I am Niamh, and I was Peter’s daughter.

I am not going to try to give you all of him in four minutes. I want to give you one Tuesday.

I was eleven and I had come last in absolutely everything at sports day. Not near the back — last, in every event, in front of the whole school. Dad drove me home and did not say a word about it. Then he pulled into the garage forecourt and bought two ninety-nines, at half past four, before dinner, which was completely against the rules. We ate them in the car park. He said one thing the entire time, which was, "Well, that is that done for another year." Then we drove home and he never mentioned it again.

He was not a man who talked things through. He was a man who bought you an ice cream and closed the subject with you on the same side of it.

He leaves my mother, Angela. He leaves me and my brother Cathal. He leaves two granddaughters who both have his exact laugh, which is unfair on everyone within earshot.

Thanks for the ice cream, Dad. That is that done.