One year ago today I lamented to myself that I should have got to know you better, and always pictured you with the 1990s ‘tash long after you changed your style to sport a smart goatee, regretted that I never had the courage to ask if we could sometime play guitar together, only got to see you play live once when ye filled Na Piarsaigh’s clubhouse with music and song that freely flowed, nary a hint of any stumble or pause. The longest chat we ever had was in the peace of Milford’s smoking room, after you’d given me a sneak preview of what proved to be your farewell poem, at that stage the damage was already done, no sense in giving up the simple pleasure of a smoke when the show was nearly over, and we were just two men shooting the breeze, finally beyond the timid nephew/uncle routine, comfortable sharing wisdom and jokes and stories. And I was just one lad, just one more visitor in a line that seemed to have no end. I heard that half
Beautiful and sad .
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