Thank you, thank you, and thank you again.
Thank you for that smile of quiet rage: the mischievous melancholy that – God knows – my own father lacked. You taught me the meaning of injustice, a hatred of apartheid, of sexism and, of course, the Poll Tax. Always the adult who delighted when I entered the room, you already knew I had more than my eighteen years to say. You travelled through the crowded, darkened spaces in my imagination with me; a scarecrow to mark my path, you dropped a few gems from your pocket along the way.
Thank you and a hundred times again, I will say, thank you.
