Letter from Croydon 13

We need to talk about death, at least I do.

A very good friend of mine has recently died. If you read a previous post, it was the one who asked rather pertinently ‘What’s wrong with you Charles?’. I was pleased at the time to find a certain comfort in the song ‘Only Human’ by Rag and Bone Man, and I was aware that whatever might be the matter with me, it wasn’t as serious as what was happening to my dear friend, who was probably dying. He did this with the grace, dignity and humour that characterised his life, fighting the reaper to the end, but when all hope was gone, still being able to have a joke with the nurses who were providing him with the morphine that would somewhat quicken his death but make it for more bearable. “Can I change my mind, now?”, he asked after they’d installed the equipment into his body to make the intake of morphine easier. I can imagine the nurses laughing at the terrible black humour but I suspect they also might have had a tear in their eye.

It is now that strange time between his death, just over a week ago and the funeral in two weeks time. His partner is understandably in pieces, yet somehow sorting out the arrangements for the funeral, and friends are rallying around, trying to help and yet in the most important way, feeling powerless to do so, None of us, after all, can bring David back. My dear wife has taken on the difficult task of making collages out of a wide variety of photos, that will be displayed at both the crematorium and reception, as a way of celebrating the beauty and richness of David’s life. I have tried to write a poem about my friend, which I may read at the funeral if there is time to be filled. In truth, though, I know that no words that I say or write could do justice to my friend’s rich and varied life.

Yet though we and especially David’s beloved partner Bernie might like to, we can not in Auden’s famous phrase ‘stop all the clocks’. As the trite, much over-used and heartless sounding expression states ‘life goes on’. Thus, not always admittedly with much energy or enthusiasm at present, I continue with my Croydon life - community gardening, playing tennis and table tennis, doing the usual chores and fulfilling whatever social obligations I may have. Indeed, I am grateful to be able to do so. It is this human connection with others that helps alleviate the despair of that other human connection that now seems to be lost forever. In the poem I wrote for the funeral, I hold out the possibility that we might somehow all meet up beyond the grave, believing that such a hope at least makes the tragic loss of our friend more bearable. I was pleased that in the latter years of his life, my friend seemed to derive quite a lot of pleasure from gardening, and so I am planning to plant a tree in his memory in the Community Garden. Whatever happens beyond the grave,it is clear that my friend will live on in the hearts and minds of his many friends for years to come. I can envisage that I will still converse with David but sometimes now it will be via a tree. It will be interesting to hear what the tree says back.

Inevitably the loss of someone close to us, brings into sharper relief our own fragile mortality. As very rich tech billionaires work to try and develop systems that will somehow make them immortal, I prefer to see death as a vital part of life. This is something that our society often shies away from, always wanting to squeeze a bit more juice from life’s lemon, and very uncomfortable with the thought of our personal end. Yet in nature, which it helps to remember we are merely a part of, individual deaths are essential for the survival of the whole intricate, inter-connected web of life. With deciduous trees, this is shown both in an annual process throughout their lives and also at the end of them. Each autumn the living leaves fall to the ground and die on the woodland floor, yet the leaf mould they produce makes the ground more fertile and suitable for other tree seeds to germinate and grow. As trees age and the deadwood inside their bark increases, they become more and more havens of biodiversity, providing numerous homes and nutrition for insects, birds and mammals. When they finally die and the process of decomposition begins in earnest, the nutrients that are released into the soil, are vital for the continuing health and well-being of the wood in which they’ve lived all of their lives.

Would it not be healthier for us to see others’ and our own deaths in a similar light. As regards my friend, the lessons he taught me throughout my life will not diminish but may indeed be enhanced now that he is no longer with us. A vital part of respecting the dead, is surely in some way to carry them within us, not as burdens but as lights that help us make our own way into the darkness. As I wait patiently for the dawn, I think of the friends and family members that have died, and decide to toast them with a small glass of whisky. Yet I also think of all those they’ve left behind, of all the joy and love they gave when they were living, that in some strange way still continues now they’re gone. Another old school friend called Tim died far too young of a rare form of cancer, and I think now of that poster in his childhood bedroom, showing an old man making a drink from squashed fruits. The words stated ‘If life gives you lemons, make lemonade’, and I realise now that’s what I’ve been trying to do with this post. I almost feel as though I’ve had enough friends and family die now to want to plant a forest.

For David

In the wee,small hours before dawn

I thought of my dear friend David,

Who died the other night.

About how we first met as schoolboys

In an English class that was new to me,

Of how he made the new boy feel at home

And a little less lost in a world of strangers.

Of how we stayed up all night,

Sharing a bottle of whisky,

In your Cambridge University flat,

Probably discussing the state of the world

And our very vital roles within it.

Of all that positive energy you brought

To your work, your endless skill and dedication,

Giving employers much more than they ever deserved.

Of your luck in finding Bernie, your life partner

Of the love you shared, and how that love

Extended to all those fortunate enough

To come within your kind and generous orbits.

Of all the funny anecdotes you told

To anyone you could find to listen,

Of all the help you offered when you could

To friends in need, or just down on their luck,

Of all the joyful memories you created,

Of all the love that will not die,

Though you are gone,

Of a life well lived,

That we might learn from.

If I could sing, I’d put it in a song.

Yet so sad as it is to have lost our friend

He’d not want us all to mourn too overmuch

If he taught us anything it’s that life’s to be lived

With love, hope and courage - sometimes maybe Dutch.

As I walk away from this here and now

I can make a pub out of the mist.

Inside David sits with our old friend Tim,

Gradually getting merrily pissed,

And when all our journeys’ race is run,

If we’re lucky and it’s opening time,

We’ll enter The Pearly Gate Tavern

To see a young man in his prime.

David will be standing at the bar,

Telling the barman a story or two,

So much fun in the pub’s conversation

Laughter rolling around the room.

“What will you have?”, David will ask,

As if he knew that we were coming.

How strange it’ll feel to be home at last

When our road’s run out of running.

Alas, poets don’t have crystal balls

Who knows what’s written in the stars,

Yet I like to think that this is not goodbye,

But merely au revoir.