He Is Gone…
He is gone, my gentle brother,
He who felt the sun upon him,
He who walked the fields in summer,
He who loved the green-treed pathways,
Over whom the birds soared skyward,
He is gone with summer’s end.
He is gone, the gentle father,
He who loved his grieving daughters,
He who loved them from their birthing
And who coddled them through childhood,
Loved them through the hours of darkness,
He has followed swallows’ flight.
He is gone: such quiet friendship,
He with care his garden tending,
He who loved to walk with nature,
Driving through the rolling country.
He who lived a life so peaceful,
Gone to peace for evermore.
He is gone, the steadfast husband,
Through the years of tears and laughter,
Through the hours of quiet disaster,
Through the pain of grief shared with her,
Through sweet moments spent together,
With night’s darkness he is gone.
JHM
Chris has phoned with the date for Richard's funeral, in mid-December. The death of my younger brother, barely three weeks ago, has induced an introspective depression and heralded more troubles, though mostly of my own making. As always, I know the pain for Chris and her family must be immense, yet like so many of us, I become self-centred even in the presence of death. Most recently, I had felt a rough edge on a tooth with food wedging. A visit to the dentist on Monday diagnosed a split lower molar, which now faces extraction. I am booked for this cruel procedure tomorrow morning. Having suffered the gruelling pain of a previous molar extraction, I do not welcome this news; I should not have vainly crunched hard nuts.
On Sunday, we went to a magnificent broadcast production of The Phantom of the Opera at the Abbeygate cinema, with the rare encore of five previous phantoms singing with Sarah Brightman in the presence of Andrew Lloyd Weber. Returning to the car, I had a parking ticket - the first for many years. Again my own fault - I had neglected to renew my disability badge in time (it takes up to 16 weeks to come through).
Now, in addition to the tooth, I am faced with a series of hospital visits to Papworth and Addenbrooke's following a PET scan last week. This was an impressive procedure where I was given a personal dose of highly radioactive glucose that arrived hot from Amersham in a huge steel syringe contained in a lead box. I was told not to go near pregnant women or children for a minimum of four hours, and avoid close contact with anyone on trains or buses. Once again, poor Annie had to suffer waiting in a chilling hospital cafeteria for nearly four hours for me to be done. That poor girl suffers much in her life, mainly through me: my decaying body, my actions, my thoughtlessness.
Death is the herald of change. For some, the changes are unimaginable; for some, minor inconveniences, but always the ripples spread and disturb all they touch. Perhaps, if we get through all this, I will whisk Annie off to a glorious break away from here where she will be pampered and fussed for once. Alas, I can also imagine Annie rolling her eyes and saying, "very likely!"
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| Richard & Chris with Edwin |
