Thank you, thank you, and thank you again.
Thank you for your mischievous smile and for the quiet rage that my own father lacked. You taught me the meaning of injustice, a hatred of apartheid, of sexism, 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 empty 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 say, thank you.