The twilight sun is white, looks as torch with a faulty battery; the late summer heat is passionless and tired, the sun scares the old people a bad sign, they will say. Pavarotti died at dawn, cancer they say, his heart was too gregarious for a coronary. Today my brother has been dead for forty years, he liked to go fishing in his boat, took me along when not out with his many mates.
It is good to wake up at dawn and be handed a clean sheet of white paper to write on and with a pen dipped in the ink of memories. Alzheimer is a terrible illness - It erases all what makes us human. I will write no more, but go into the next room and listen to Pavarotti, I will have to go to his birthplace Medina, Italy, one day.
