Red reminders poke their heads through unkempt grasses. Trackside solidarity. One last farewell. Fragile lives all the more memorable for their transience. There is always a poignancy to journeys that may never be repeated. An almost irrational desire to paint a picture of everything in your memory before the finality of the moment arrives.
When I asked my daughter this morning if we should give a feather to Stan she reacted immediately.
"Yes. The biggest one" with photographs of the three of us, at her request.
She picks up three pieces of gravel which she holds in her tiny hand.
"Take these with you Daddy"
Who am I to argue? Those pieces of stone, handpicked, are three in more than a million, all her love and energy lies within them.
2nd June 2017
Stanley was a brave and brilliant artist; this was obvious to anyone familiar with his work, but this was not what made him so rare a human being.
He was driven by the injustices he witnessed; his concerns were for the oppressed, who’s company he preferred. He was a champion of the people, sensitive, humble and generous, despite his outward flamboyant appearance.
When he spoke, it was always with the inner confidence of a man who never once had to check his words; something that to the casual observer might have smacked of arrogance; those who knew him, knew better; Stanley had the courage of his convictions; he was of pure intent, someone you could trust, have faith in; someone who would never leave you behind; a man who stood firmly by the things he said.
Stanley had a thing called integrity, the rarest of attributes in today’s world. In all the years I was fortunate to know him and call him a friend, I have nothing but love and respect for the way in which he answered his calling, his rage against intolerance pushing him on when his body was tired. His was the heart of a warrior.
Fly high my gentle friend. I will carry you in my heart always.