The sun is painting coral streaks onto the evening clouds. A fresh wind picks up the dry leaves and swirls them in little circles across the stone floor.

He sits on the veranda, the yellowing plastic garden chair creaking under his weight, a half-smoked Benson and Hedges ultra light cigarette – the ashes drooping already – squeezed between his parched lips, Readers Digest in the left hand and a beer – the label obscured by a semi-dead cactus – quietly bubbling on a rickety, wooden table nearby. He takes a big gulp and without taking his eyes off the book he puts the bottle back on the table.

I approach cautiously, careful not to drop the present that I had handcrafted over the last few weeks. I push the brown dachshund out of the way, who then immediately starts growling at me.

He looks up and says: “The sun is the black sheep of the universe.”

I stand stunned, trying to process the information. Eventually my brain takes control of my limbs again.

I reply “Yes dad, happy fathers day” and present my gift.