I remember it well.

Wrapped up warm, gloved hand in his, he’d insisted I join him that grey, Sunday morning.

I wanted to grab my bike and head to the park, like I always did, to meet my mates. To yell, and laugh and ‘get up to no good’ as Mrs. Wickens our cranky old neighbour said.

To leave behind the silence, the slow breathing. Mum in the kitchen. Dad in the living room sipping his tea.

Not talking.

Just sitting.

Wasn’t always like that. I have snatches of memory, fuzzy with time. Riding high on his shoulders, his muscles moving under my skinny legs. Lying flat on his forearm screaming like a jet engine. Mum fake-fright yelling, ‘Don’t drop him!’ She knew he wouldn’t.

Couldn’t.

He was so strong.

Mum hid her tears every time he went away. I knew she was sad. So was I. But it was okay, he’d come back. He always came back. Then there’d be a ribbon across the door, balloons and cake.

The Welcome Home Cake. Eaten with smacking lips and sighs of satisfaction.

Except that last one, smashed and oozing sticky red jam.

Nobody took a slice of that.

Mum, hiding tears again, clearing away the broken plates. Telling me it was fine. All fine. That he just needed time, a bit of time and the games would start again. Promise.

But they didn’t.

The days got longer, the silence deeper.

I took off every day. To school. To the park. To my mates’ houses. Anywhere to escape the slow, sad silence that engulfed our home.

Until that grey November day. He stopped me at the door and took my gloved hand in his.

‘Come with me.’ Almost the only words said to me since he came back. ‘Please.’ I glanced back at Mum, hovering in the kitchen door. She nodded, okay.

We walked together, down the street to the square and joined the smattering of folk on the pavement edge. Waited, shifting feet, in the cold, his hand gripping mine.  Then in the distance, I heard it. A blast of brass, the beat of a drum. A pounding, marching throb that rang in my chest and made me catch my breath. I wanted to run, to shout, to strut up and down, chin up chest out, in time to the music.

But his hand held mine, pegging me down. Tighter and tighter as the band came closer and closer, passing us in a blaring, beating noise.

Then silence.

Not the heavy silence of a home where no-one talks, but an outdoor, bird-song and low hum of traffic-filled silence. Shuffling feet. A cough.

Just when I couldn’t bear it any more – the gripped hand, the stillness, the breath held tight inside -it came.

The pure, single-soaring trumpet song.

I felt the gloved grip relax and looked up at my father’s face. He was smiling, tear-trickle trails on his cheeks.

As the crowd moved away, he looked down.

‘C’mon son, time we went home.’