...

I've been sitting in front of my computer for ages, looking at this rectangle where I was hoping to be able to put down a few words that might describe the thoughts that've been swirling 'round my head these past few days. It all refuses to flow through my fingers, let alone settle on the screen...

So...

I went on a long - LONG - walk yesterday, taking those whirling thoughts, my sketchbook and a newly acquired copy of Over Sea, Under Stone with me. It was a hot day, one of the few hot days we've had all "summer." Walking into the first village in my path, I stopped for a drink on a canopied terrace, and let my mind wander, thinking of David, but unable to stop at one or the other memory point, just shuffling the images back and forth, looking vaguely for something I'd overlooked or forgotten before, but taking some comfort in the old images and films, the memory of the sound of his voice, his laugh...

I remember my first look at David, when he and Mom arrived at the airport, back from Ankara. Though actually, I have never so much remembered the look at HIM as the look at the cardboard baby box they'd given him to travel in, and wondering what a kid had to do to be given such a swank box to nestle in...

After the rest under the canopy, having walked much further than I'd planned and seen a panoply of beautiful wee sights, I stopped at a terrace that made me think I'd been transported back into the France of the 50s or earlier. You had to experience it to believe it. After a while, I opened up Over Sea, Under Stone, a book that easily recalls David, with whom I shared this collection ("The Dark is Rising Sequence," as it is apparently known, now), as well as other wonderful childhood reads. One would start a series, and the other would have to wait until (s)he was finished with the first and moving on the second. Mom would sometimes join in the scrabble to the finish line, and although we were fast readers, she had a clear advantage: an elastic bedtime hour.

I couldn't help thinking of Gumerry as a David-like figure. And something about Barney made me think of Leo...

David and I were always going on quests, looking for lost treasures, hidden passageways, secret messages. Thinking about it, the books we loved in those years were certainly a reflection of all of that.

Well... when we were all reunited last night, the boys asked to watch The Iron Giant, their obsession of the moment. When it got to the moment at which Hogarth tries to explain death to the giant, the boys were leaning in towards the screen, and you could feel their ears pricking up. Tomi turned to me after Hogarth said it and reiterated (in his own, sweet way) as he looked curiously at me: "It bad to kiw. It not bad to die." I had already caught my breath, and when he said that, I couldn't think what to do. The whole thing was making me feel a little bit sick, and even a bit confused. All I could come up with on the spot was, "It IS bad to kill - it's HORRible-TERRible to kill. But whether or not it's bad to die is a much more complicated matter."

And then, this morning, as Jean-Philippe came out of the bath, he looked into the boys' room, from which we could hear cries of glee, as per usual. I glanced up from my desk and saw a look of terror on his face, and then he was sailing into their room, where... they'd opened the window and were calling out to the people walking in the street below!

We had a long talk about danger and death and all, and the boys really, really seemed to be understanding, and even to be frightened by what they'd done. And then, towards the end of our spiel, Tomi smiled innocently and said, "Can I have some chocolate milk?" I nearly started crying.

Sitting on the terrace tonight, with my copy of The Dark is Rising on my knee, a tragic wave seemed to sweep through, and I realised that I've never missed anybody like I've been missing David. There is no describing this kind of loss, try as one might.

And it occured to me once again that the real tragedy is not my/our own, but all of humanity's. Every single day, someone is - or rather, many someones are - being torn from their loved ones, who are left to deal with it the best they can.


p.s. The photo above was taken in the autumn of 1973, when we were 4 and 1 1/2 years old. For David's 18th or 19th birthday, I tried to paint his portrait using this photo, but couldn't ever seem to get it right...