Remembering Michael.

I had been to this building once before. One day last summer and seeking brief respite from another fearsomely oppressive blue day, I found myself passing under its imposing archway and walking alone through its cool stone halls. I explored its aisles, its nooks and its crannies; photographed its stained glass, its intricate carvings and I left feeling refreshed, revived. I stepped out of the dimly diffused light and contemplative air, re-entered a day which seemed to shine brighter now. Before there had been nothing but slumbering moist heat, but now there was an edge to the sun and a sharpness to the day. It spoke in a whisper, imploring you to seize it, embrace it, live it; to not be content with merely letting it pass

Today I am back in this building but this time I am not alone. Now there are hundreds sitting beside me, behind me, ahead of me. Some talk, some are silent but the building remains as I remember. The stone is still cool and the air still contemplative, another fierce day of light held in obeyance behind thick shields of stained glass. We sit in our rows in patient silence, wait for the service to begin and for the lines of his life, his protracted death to finally come together; to finally reach one concluding point.

He had been living in the UK for the last seven years, working as a teacher and hoping to one day be discovered as an actor. He was deliciously and stereotypically gay; sinfully skinny, stylishly attired and as camp as a row of tents. His facial expressions, his gestures and speech; all were overblown, melodramatic and it was no surprise that London had made him feel more welcome than this blue collar swathe of Australia to which he now returned one final time. I had only ever known the London version, introduced to him for the first time in 2003 as the new amour of an old friend from back home. He had shook my hand and smiled at me, told me that I was cute and that her and I made a beautiful couple. I liked him immediately.

Today the service begins and his life is unraveled for one final inspection. People who were closest to him take it in turns to rise from their seats, walk forward to his coffin and turn to face us. They tell us their tales from his time in their lives. They speak of moments I was not part of, emphasise qualities I was only fleetingly aware of and we sit, listen, remember. Some heads buried deep in thoughts, some held in hands and some obscured by handkerchiefs. Everybody has a piece of his history and everbody has their memories of him.

My memories are from a time five years ago, housed in the final months of a life I had lived on the other side of the world. His old friend from back home had recently become my wife and soon afterward she had left London and returned to Australia, unable to endure being separated from her son any longer. Our marriage was conducted by email; by telephone calls and letters - and some days were a struggle during these months. Life was on hold and I was listening to the music, waiting for an answer on my residency visa. How long it would take, nobody could say. What that answer would be, nobody could say. I was treading water, doing my best to keep my head dry and some days were better than others. Some days were harder than others and when I was struggling; when I felt the waves rise and threaten to overwhelm, he was one of my three anchor points. He was one of three people from her past who existed in my present - one of three people I could talk to who knew her, knew us. Knowing him had helped me through those times, speaking to him had helped me through those times. His support had helped and he had helped. Before, back then, no longer. In the past now - the tense appropriate for a life now passed.

It had happened on a Tasmanian road on December 3rd. In a car and travelling with his mother, they collided with a truck and were reduced to wreckage. His mother survived the crash but he did not. They are both here today, both at the front. His coffin is carried past us at the end of the service and it looks small, too small. His mother follows behind, her face a mask which cannot hide the truth; that no parent should be asked to bury their child.

Today the final song plays as the cathedral begins to empty; a haunting Irish ballad which fills the air as we file slowly towards the archway, out to the wide open grass outside. For all but one of us, life stretches ahead of this moment. How long it continues, how far past the horizon it will stretch is something only time will reveal. Seize it, embrace it. Live it. Do not be content with merely letting it pass.