Black is the colour indeed, today...

Every so often, the Universe graces us with the presence of a perpetually cheery, lively, generously giving soul. My friend Ciarra, who died in a motorcycle accident in County Kildare on Monday night, was one such soul. Regulars on this blog may recall my St Patrick's day antics back in March - Ciarra was the feisty Irish lass who took me out to some of the best pubs and sessions, ensured I was well supplied with ciders, and later tipped me into a spare bed in her granny's house, with a post-it note on the door to warn Nana Norah that the house had company. When Anthony and I went back to Dublin in May, she was still asking for help to sing 'black is the colour', because she never could remember the words. I don't think I'll ever listen to those lyrics again without hearing her clear, lilting voice, warbling over the high notes when the hour was late. It's one of life's horrible truths that we often don't stop to consider what matters in life until part of it goes missing. I realised, as I bawled my eyes out on the bus home yesterday, that I've never heard Ciarra say a word against anyone. I know that couldn't be said of me. Perhaps it's time I try to make it so. My grandfather used to say that no-one is truly dead while they are loved and remembered by even one person who knew them. Ciarra, in her short 26 years, shone her sunny disposition into hundreds of lives, and those memories will never leave us. That doesn't help with the sense of 'gone-ness' just yet, but in time, I think, her spirited cheer will be a good thing to try to carry forward in the world.