Yesterday, I scattered the ashes of my dear brother in this place that meant so much to him and where he grew up and that is sacred in a secular way to me. It will always mean my home and the home of the Byrne family. I know Frank loved it and that goes in the reverse: Ventnor loved Frank and was privileged to know him
The Ventnor beach; I can see him riding a wave:
St. James, where he was an altar boy:
Interestingly, there was a table in front of the altar with a visitors' book (so it's become a tourist destination--damn!). I wrote my name on a line and in another, this: Frank Byrne, his ashes).
After, it was down to Margate and Lucy, the elephant. I had been in it ten or so years ago, but yesterday, just visiting the gift shop. For some strange reason, I bought a box of Lucy-themed Christmas cards.
It had been rainy and heavily overcast all day--appropriate, I think, for the task of scattering ashes. Oddly, though, I didn't fee sad or overcast myself. Frank had lived for almost ninety years, he had had a good, good life (after his earlier years, when he had been a real pain): a true love, an accomplished and interesting family. At the end, he was no longer there, just as my twin sister is no longer there, but when he was, he was a gem. I will miss him forever. 💔
Note: Later, I will elaborate on the Ventnor visit and flesh in the most important place where a bit of Frank now rests: 15 South Rosborough Avenue, where he grew up.
No comments:
Post a Comment