family

Last Friday we laid my Uncle Steve to rest. The youngest of Dad's brothers; where there were once five now only Dad and Uncle Mike remain. Uncle Steve was a gifted stone mason, an architectural surveyor, and a talented guitarist. He also had a green thumb and kept a beautiful garden with his wife, my Auntie Jo. He had a passion for roses. And good food, he was an excellent chef. And motorbikes.

He died aged 68, which these days feels like no age at all, after a bitter and painful struggle with liver failure that he met with his characteristic grit and stubbornness. 

It was a good ceremony. My brother-in-law James conducted it, and I read a few touching words that Auntie Jo had written. It went well, and we gathered with friends and family at a local pub after afterwards. My cousins and I joked that we only ever seemed to gather together for weddings and funerals these days, and it seemed more funerals than weddings of late. We promised to remedy that this summer. We might, or we might not

I count myself lucky to have a close family. Even if we don't see each other as much as we should or we used to, we're always there for each other when needed.

It's easy to take that for granted. But really, it's no small thing.