Eight years ago today my son was in Oz, sitting out in the sun, writing cards full of humour and high hopes for his future to his friends. Ten days later he was dead.
For some reason today I'm thinking of a friend of his who I phoned to share the devastating news. He wasn't there, but he told me later that when he dialed 1471 and heard my number he thought it was my son phoning having returned home. He said that he'd been whooping and jumping around the room with joy. Whilst my son was in Australia, this friend had been building him a bicycle and was looking forward to seeing his face when he presented him with it. He showed us the bike. He'd done something special to it that he knew would please my son, although I don't recall now what it was.
My son had some incredible friends and we drew strength from them. I was amazed at the sensitivity and understanding of these young people, who with the exception of a couple, had not had to deal with the death of such a close family member. This was in contrast to most adults I knew. The less said about them, the better.
