We stood like two strangers on the rain platform. Which, I suppose we were. Never mind that I was his daughter. Never mind that he was my father. We didn’t know each other, and we hadn’t, not for a long time. Not since Mama passed. I looked at him, his greying hair, the corduroy jacket. At one glance even I, a stranger, could tell the academic life suited him. The life of Oxford; stuffy rooms, bulging books and papers, large dinners at long tables, old boys. Especially those large dinners. Under the jacket he wore the same stripy knit jumper his mama, my Grandmama, had made for him. It strained now though to cover his rather ample bely. And what about me? How had I changed to him? A young woman standing on the edge of Platform 2, taking the place of the rebellious teen who thought she knew it all. The old Victorian style canopy does not lend it’s self well to keeping the rain from our heads, but it manages gamely.
“Father,” I greet him.
He takes a swift step forwards. I am unprepared for his embrace.
I think the tense in this changes from past to present, but I’m not sure where exactly…