It’s never twenty years.
And yet, apparently, it is.
Its funny how time moves so quickly. After all, December 2015 gave us twelve years since Bob died, and some of the family asked how long it had been near the time, so I said “twelve years” and that was their response. “It’s never twelve years!” He seemed the most alive of all of us. Tempus fugit.
It’s also fair to be a pendant, and note that it’s actually been twenty-five years. That’s when I recall dad taking mum to the gates of St Helens in Shawlands. Of Bob himself – the most alive of all of us, you know – in his smart, dark blue jacket and black trousers. He was smiling, I remember, despite the fact it was his own personal loss. But I never counted that one, because I was far too young to remember my Uncle Tommy. And, if he was my grandfather’s brother, well, he must have been ancient to my four year olds brain! He was fifty-four, which doesn’t seem so ancient these days, but one can’t really call it my first family funeral, as I never attended it, and it was for a person I don’t recall.
That’s not the case for my great gran, though.