What would we be then?

I remember hearing about Gavin’s death.

It had been years since I had shared a school classroom with him, or even the same neighbourhood. My mother came home from visiting an old friend in the north Dublin suburbs where we had used to live. She came into my bedroom, the knock on the door announcing her arrival and more. I knew from that soft rapping that there were gentle words to follow. She told me where she had been and why, then moved the conversation on towards the true topic.She had ran into a woman who was asking after me. Gavin’s mam, saying how she always remembered me as being the same age as her Gavin, and that we had been good friends. I didn’t disagree with her. My mam is a great talker but when the words are heavy with emotion they can sometimes stumble, so I felt it best not to interrupt. She looked at me with those eyes of hers, brimming with love and concern, and told me that Gavin had taken his own life.

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