Lucy Butterfield

On the morning of July 9th, my Dad, Ray, died - just three days shy of his 72nd birthday.

Since then I’ve moved between total grief delirium, visceral pain that sinks right into my bones, and moments of absolute clarity.

But he’s also not completely gone. When I catch my reflection, he’s right there. I look like him.
Still here.

I look at my hands. I wear his ring on my right hand, on the same finger he, and his Dad, wore it.
Still here.

I wear his shirts sometimes.
Still here.

My northern accent flying out in force when I’m animatedly telling a story, or talking shit.
Still here.

All the work I do on my house and garden - lifting, drilling, painting, building (almost falling off a ladder).
Still here.

When I’m shocked at the price of something and refuse to buy it on principle.
Still here.

And if I have a glass (bottle) of red wine and a cheeky cig…
He’s still here.

Some of my favourite photographs of Ray 🤍