June 17: How I’ll be spending my first Father’s Day without a Dad

Looking into the reflective glass front of the bookshop window as I adjust my jeans and pow – there's the emotional gut punch I keep experiencing. 

Past my reflection and atop the display of novels in front of me is a placard proclaiming the words 'perfect for Dad!'

Wandering into Tesco for teabags and there it is again, a stand of Fathers Day cards – pow. 

Every time I unlock my iPhone and check my calendar, there's that event dot marking June 17 – pow. 

Scrolling through Twitter and there's a Father's Day gift guide for the adventure loving Dad, a filtered snap of a friend and her Dad on Facebook, and a Youtube video of Father's Day pranks – pow, pow, pow.

For most people, a rack of cheesy cards or an email reminder from Amazon about gift buying would pass by without a second thought, but for me, this will be my first Father’s Day without my Dad.

To be honest, I'm not ready fo the Sunday after next, or any Father's Day after that, but I also wasn't ready for my first birthday after my Dad died, or Easter, or my university graduation, and those days slid by without much to note other than an extra heavy ache in my chest. 

Last Father's Day, I don't even think I bothered to go home to visit my family in Galway.

My Dad wasn't sick then, he was exactly as I want to remember him – and we were completely unaware of the cancer that was already eroding his bones and liver beyond repair. 

I suppose technically he was already sick but we just had no idea yet. I probably rang him to wish him a good day, we would have exchanged pleasantries and he would have asked me all about Dublin – how is the rent search, how's work, any lads on the scene, I hope you're sticking to quitting smoking, etc. 

I would have asked him how the sunflowers were this year, how my little brother's match was and how he was feeling about being another year older, his birthday having fallen on June 11. 

I don't actually remember, as at the time it was just another day, I had no idea that on that day the following year he would no longer physically exist in this world. I completely took for granted that he would just always be there, tucked away in Galway, pottering around the garden, taking his motorbike out for a spin, watching Game of Thrones in the evenings with a strong cuppa. 

Four months ago, I lost my Dad to cancer. He was diagnosed in September, declared terminal not long after and lost his battle with the viperous disease this Spring. 

A short illness, in the grand scheme of things, but the injustice of his death is what makes the tears still gather when I consider what a vibrant, eclectic life he had, what a strong and salt-of-the-earth man he was, and how inexcusable it is that cancer was able to extinguish his life in just six months. 

I won't be sending a card this year, or picking up the phone to his call, or making him breakfast in bed, my little sister's handmade, undoubtedly glitter-coated Father's Day gift perched on the side of the breakfast tray.  

I'm not sure exactly how the day is going to go – it will be difficult, but what will I be doing with it? 

I'm lucky enough to still have my amazing Mum, two dazzling if maddening little sisters and my thoughtful little brother. Casting a wider net, I have an array of kindly aunts and uncles, a clatter of cousins and a handful of best friends I can count on for absolutely anything. 

No doubt, there will still be cascades of tears shed by everyone in my house on that day, but rather than wallow in the fresh and still stinging memory of my Dad's death, on June 17, I'll be celebrating the lives of those who are still here with me. 

I'll actually make the pilgrimage down to Galway to spend time with my family, and call up my friends for the chats and text my aunties – I'll appreciate every second of their company before I ever get the opportunity to regret that I didn't.