There was joy and clarity in these stories. But, inevitably, mainly despair and worry: what will happen to my children when I have gone? All those I spoke to, all the people who had overcome their uncertainties and produced memory books for their children were pleased they had done so. I talked to men and women, all of whom had made nine or ten stories, one for each of their children, told in different ways because the children were of different ages.

Stories are bridges. Nobody regrets the building of a bridge.

Needless to say, that was the most moving and at the same time the most poignant aspect of these slim little memory books. They were farewells, inexorable farewell letters. All the stories ended up in an infinite emptiness, they were about lives that would end far too soon.

Christine said as much very clearly in reply to one of my questions: "When does death come too soon?"

She thought for a long time before answering.

"When does a person die too soon? There are lots of different answers to that. One answer that is always true is: when a parent, usually a mother, is forced to leave her children when they are too small to take care of themselves. And when she cannot be sure that someone else can be counted upon to take care of her children when she has gone."

Suddenly she realised that some of her children were listening. She fell silent immediately.

"Do you think they can hear what we're talking about?"

"I don't know."

Then she burst out laughing.

"It doesn't matter. Why should I try to fool myself or my children or my friends? Everybody knows my time is limited."

Later, our last day together, she returned to the question:

"Death always makes a mess of things, no matter when it comes."

27

I've experienced this before.

People who are shortly going to die want to know that they are still alive. Often with a desperate and at times ferocious intensity.