Writing about Martin has been, so far like a stroll around a cemetery, Lawnswood Cemetery, on a gentle sunday afternoon. By writing about Martin I am writing of the mistakes we made as young men. There are days when I wonder why so many of us died so young. Out of my closest group of freinds that straddled life from school to early twenties half a dozen are now dead. Martin should have passed through the dark days. I miss him.
It would be remiss of me to not leave a record of his finest moments. All of us deserve a biography; everyones life has value.
With Richard I went for a trip to find Martins grave. We never found it. Now Richard lies too in Lawnswood where we looked for Martin, as does his father John, as do my mothers ashes.
It seems most of us find our way to Lawnswood cemetery, ultimately.
No comments:
Post a Comment