Too soon, too soon.

Gerard is not Scottish.

When I asked him last night though, in my dream, he was.

And he told me how his mother, pregnant at the age of 14 had strode defiantly into the austere church school where he was eventually raised, and demanded that the brethren take care of him.

He wept uncontrolably as he remembered, so I held him.

Tight.

I wept too.

In fact, Gerard is French, he lives in the local village and I only know him a little.

He is the same age as me, I like him and he could be my friend.

He isn’t, he remains only someone I know, though our paths cross at times.

Last night we lingered on those paths.

He owns a shop in the local village; he is a photographer.

Micky too is a photographer.

But he lives in Spain.

He is a close friend, though I haven’t seen him for several years.

The last time was a few Christmases ago when, lighting the stove for tea I accidently set light to my pyjama sleeve.

Micky put me out; I have a black singe on my sleeve to remind me of the day he saved my life.

I wish i could have saved his.

In my dream Gerard had black hair and I held it in my hands as he wept.

Micky had black hair.

I spoke with him on the phone in the springtime; he promised to get better, to fight the cancer that had caught him.

He needed some time; he needed to disappear for a while.

Yesterday I got news from his wife.

Last night I said goodbye.