Dead Men Tell No Tales

Having just read and reviewed Revolver by Marcus Sedgwick (http://thefadedbookmark.blogspot.com/2011/03/revolver-by-marcus-sedgwick-review.html ) , I heard that my best friends mother had died.  So setting off, yesterday morning on a round trip of 300 miles to attend the scattering of the ashes, I found myself thinking about one of the main themes of this book; even in death, a persons story continues, impacting on their family and friends.  You would think that after 65 years, a line could be neatly drawn under that chapter and people, especially my friend, could move on.  Yet they can't.  Ripples continue to spread outwards, causing upset.  Life is imitating art and maybe that is why Revolver is so grippingly realistic.

As I was listening to the eulogies by her best friend and cousin, her brother and her daughter (my friend) about the woman they remembered, I finally saw the woman underneath.  The strengths and beauty that she had, the interests we had in common.  It turns out that all the things I love and admire in my oldest and closest friend were passed down from her mother and suddenly I wasn't angry with her any more.  She was a woman who had made choices, some of them awful, but she was always larger then life and in the end, the small, important parts that made her amazing have been passed on to the next generation.  And if my friend has any say in the matter, it will pass down to the following generations.

So Marky, we might not have always seen eye to eye, but I raised a glass of wine to you last night and said a thank you for the gift of your daughter.