The sun forced it’s way through the slate grey sky mottling the almost hallowed ground for just a brief second as the modest coffin made it’s way to it’s final resting place. Two Spanish council workers hoisted the box unceremoniously onto a scruffy mechanical lift and Peter Nette made his final ascent. Andrew and Paul felt lost. Peter had been their good mate for over a decade and his sudden departure had left them reeling! As his tomb was sealed, by way of a dodgy glue gun and a sheet of something unidentifiable, Paul separated from Andrew and turned far away. The silence was fittingly deathly. To Paul the banality of the moment was overwhelming. The ordinariness of non-existence confounded him. He stood unsteadily and wondered morbidly, ‘Is this it? Is this what it comes to?’ Stuck, literally, into an anonymous wall with a half used tube of ‘No Nails’! Charming. It was far too mundane for a man who could never have been described as that. Paul screamed silently towards the distant mountains. Edvard Munch would have been proud. Were he not dead too! He scoured the part of himself he thought he knew for an explanation. He wanted the great all-knowing universe to tell him why the older ‘brother’ he and Andrew had found, and eventually loved, had left them. The hills had no answer. Yet Paul found their purple majesty and benign stillness comforting, even as his […]
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