Memory as Memorial

I was listening to a discussion on Radio Four the other week about why it is that the media become obsessed with celebrating events only when they have reached a number divisible by five i.e 5, 20, 50, 100 etc - unless it is something that requires urgent attention, such as the end of World War One, because those who may have been alive to witness it are dying out.

This lead to me think about those relatives or friends whose funeral I have attended and for whom there is no physical memorial, no tree, headstone, plaque on a seat overlooking a secluded harbour. I haven't been to that many funerals, a dozen at most, but only one of them (a former colleague who committed suicide after an argument with her boyfriend) resulted in a funeral rather than a cremation. Those people have not been forgotten simply because there is no physical acknowledgement that they ever existed, the still live on in photographs, letters, but more importantly in our individual and collective memory.

My brother died on 30th November 2004, he was 42 when he died. As his son Darryl, who was 12 at the time, said in a poem at his funeral, "he was 41 and going, by 42 he was gone." I don't miss him anymore today than I did on the 3rd or 4th anniversaries of his death and yet somehow posting on the 5th Anniversary seems more 'right.'

When I think back to the last eighteen months of his life, after his diagnosis with lung cancer, I think of two distinctive times we spent together. There was the time shortly after his diagnosis when he, Karon, Darryl and Laura (my niece) came down for Nathalie's ninth birthday and Nigel, Darryl and I went to Mudeford Quay, sat outside the pub with a couple of pints (Darryl had a coke) and discussed football, work etc, the sort of things you discuss before getting down to discussing the big 'c'. The second time was the Saturday before he died (he died on the Monday night), he barely knew me, couldn't move from his bed and sat wide eye and dying watching a rugby international on the screen. I held his hand and told him that I wanted him to know he had been a fantastic brother and that I loved him and always would. He stared blankly at me then smiled.

On the day of his funeral and cremation it had rained and rained. I found the place in the garden of remembrance where relatives and friend left flowers and bent down to lay the claret and blue wreath we had brought, as I did so the sun burst through the clouds. As it did so I stood up and laughed, there might not be a God but the weather certainly had a sense of humour.

I'd be lying if I said I think about him everyday, I do this time of year as we get closer to the 'anniversary' of his death. That's not to say my love for him has diminished over the years, nor has the respect for what he did with his life during the short time he was with us but time really is a healer and the pain grows into something different but boy do I miss him.

It probably seems daft posting this but I started writing this blog for a variety of reasons one of which was to get things off my chest and at this time of year it seems appropriate.