I have been looking at pictures of Andrew. I have many. Over the course of twenty years, five months and eleven days; there is plenty of time to take pictures. Still, there comes a time, a day when there is, alas, an Andrewless occasion. It’s no good to keep turning the pages, there are no more pictures; unless one starts from the beginning, again. And I do, often. Of course there are countless snapshots in my mind, in my heart, and those are SO vivid and present and real that I keep being shocked that such lively images are those of someone who is supposedly, dead. And that’s when I scream, rant and rave at the picture my mind throws at me; the one of Andrew, still beautiful, but dead, on a hospital trolley.
It is a difficult image to fight with. Warming his forehead with three hundred kisses as my husband did, only worked so far, the rest of his body… cold… but still beautiful.
But… recently we found the recording of a dictation that Andrew did for his Chinese professor. I was struck by how Andrew’s warm, elegant and sophisticated voice had made this language sound… I’d say as lovely as Italian. But maybe I am biased. What do you think?
Andrew’s Chinese dictation for his Professor