When I put my grandson, Max, to bed tonight here, he said, ‘But this smells like Noah.’
Noah is Max’s cousin, the same age, three, and a strong significant presence, like breakfast, or mummy, or love.
He indicated the quilt. ‘This is Noah. It smells like her.’ Him.
It does. It smells like the washing detergent that Noah’s family use, and it is Noah.
Then we read about dinosaurs. He falls asleep, strongly living, and asleep. His hand is still reaching for the lamp dial, an Ikea lamp with a brass dial that controls the light.
Then I go and look at some books given to me by a friend who is 94 and can no longer hold the books upright to read them. Three Kingdoms by Luo Guanzhong; a set of four volumes dressed in pale green watered silk, announced in gold, housed in a slip case, and volume one with a large grease stain on the sublime watered frontage from when he last read it, propped at breakfast.
My friend, Richard, who can no longer hold the books up, is lying strongly, asleep.
All is life.