He finished Sundays with a whiskey, neat.

As I watch the rise and fall of his chest, his breath catches ever-so-slightly in his throat, like a steam train rattling off into the distance. Welcome to your 4:06 service, this is the last stop before our final destination. Around us, the rustle of papery skin against starched sheets, the constant drip-drip of the IV fluid. It’s eerily quiet. One can’t help but reflect.

It feels like only yesterday that we were courting, rose petals held steadfast onto stems tied together with twine. The promise of a future together clung to every petal. That bouquet lasted a whole fortnight if I recall – a good omen I told myself. After that he’d bring me fresh blooms, every Monday morning without fail.

Once, we went to a drive-in cinema. Gosh, it was flash. I wore my best frock and spent hours twisting rollers into my hair. What was the film we watched? I think it was an Alfred Hitchcock one, was it Vertigo? I don’t think I was really paying attention to the flick mind you; I was so nervous I had to sit on my hands. I couldn’t help but steal glances over to the driver’s seat; he looked so handsome in his bomber jacket with his hair slicked back just-so.

If I think hard enough, I can still hear the trumpets of Louis Armstrong’s ‘Hello, Dolly’ as he’d twirl me around on summer evenings. “I feel the room swayin' for the band's playin' / One of my old favourite songs from way back when…” I can feel my skirt floating, catching air as I’d spin around in his arms, feet tip-tapping on the kitchen lino beneath our feet. We would find the perfect rhythm between the trumpet, banjo and piano, the outside world fading away. How pertinent Louis’ words feel now: “Look at the old girl now, fellas / Dolly'll never go away again.”

Oh, what I’d give for one last taste of his famous shepherd’s pie. The kids would always pick out the peas, but he’d add them in anyway and then eat theirs all at the end. I used to love the look on his face after an evening meal. He’d lean back in his chair and intertwine his fingers, resting his hands on his belly. “I’m absolutely chocka-full after that, you lot'll have to roll me through the door!”

What an excellent and loving father. From taking our bustling herd to the athletics track every week, helping with mathematics homework (how could anyone do those sums, let alone a child!) to reading Dr Seuss at bedtime. One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. I can still see him hopping across the room like a kangaroo – all 6ft 2” of him – chasing the squealing little field mice with threats of tickles if caught! Oh, how we’d laugh.

Oh! And when he came home, set his briefcase down, only to find Bonnie had shredded his new slippers to smithereens. How tenderly he picked up all the little pieces, hands cupped, and dropped them into the wastebin, the poor dear. Of course, Bonnie ended up back in her spot at the bottom of our bed that night, even after he swore black and blue that she was a bad dog.

If he could be anywhere right now, I bet your bottom dollar that he’d choose his workshop in the shed. He was always happiest working away out there, bless him. Whistling away to himself, tidying, organising, fixing bits and bobs. He’d often end up with tiny wood chips in his socks, and I’d have to scoop out the little pile of them that would gather in the bottom of the washer. He’d head out there first thing some days, keen as mustard.

He always finished Sundays with a whiskey, neat. Just the one little tipple a week. Even now, I'll stick with my brandy I think. I never liked whiskey like he did. "Puts hairs on your chest, it does."

I come to, just as the clock hits 4:07 and I watch as the train pulls him away from the station.

Isn’t time a fickle thing. The moments you don't want to last, do, but I wish the last sixty seconds would stay forever.

You can go, my love. I’ll see you soon. Go on, now.