Craig. Glynnis. Me. So young once, now all three nursing a dying son. Grey in our hair. Bewilderment, amongst calm and pain, in our older eyes and the beautifully tender touch of a father’s hand on his dying son’s head. Sweetly whispered, comforting murmurs. The ability of us all to face this with some form of courage; some form of faith, even amongst the terrible sadness. These are pictures I will have in my heart forever. My, how we have grown. Up. Grown and grown up.
If Antony is the bridge, the conduit, that’s drawn the rivers of our lives together, however briefly and for whatever reason, then he’s done a magnificent job. Twenty five or so years ago, we’d never have thought we’d be standing here, together, today.
Song that came to me, around two or three a.m as I was watching Antony and dreading his death but wishing his death all the same: “I am just a new boy, stranger in this town. Where are all the good times? Who’s gonna show this stranger around?” And I reckoned that’s the song Ant’ll be singing in his new world. (Young Lust, Pink Floyd).