Category Archives: AM

Black and Beyond

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Anyone who knows grief knows that one of its special horrors is its capacity to surprise.

There you are, going along and minding your own business, when out of nowhere, grief smashes you in the face.

In grief you hunch your shoulders, primed at all times for attack. Let down your guard and you will pay.

Making my coffee this morning – a comforting ritual of grinding and frothing; Percol’s Black and Beyond beans; chrome; pressure – my brother Anthony was mentioned on Desert Island Discs. Apparently he once described conductor-castaway Harry Rabinowitz as “the UK’s best-kept secret”.

Son Giorgio, doing his homework, pricked up his ears. He was proud! “Anthony’s on the news!”

I smiled and quickly turned away, the toasted Vogel’s suddenly sandpaper in my throat, tears squirting absurdly from my eyes. Comic-book tears and my belly shuddering. An hour later, I still have not caught my breath.

I let down my guard. And I paid.

Anthony Minghella by Brigitte Lacombe

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Anthony Minghella’s birthday

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6th January. Epiphany. Twelfth Night. The end of the festive season. Decorations down and back to work.

My brother, Anthony, would have been sixty one today.  From this brilliant, beautiful man – my only brother – I learned so much about how to be.  Except, possibly, how to grieve.  He did not equip me for that.  How to cope with missing him.  How to stop longing for the phone to ring and for it to be him.  The warmth in that voice of his, the love in it, the safety in it.

The way he gave things meaning.  Things he loved, you loved too.  Bach.  Beckett.  Joni, Jarrett.  His ridiculously infectious enthusiasm.  When you’ve had that in your life, it’s bewildering to have to endure its absence. When the sun has shone on you, like Jude Law’s Dickie on Matt Damon’s Ripley, and suddenly it’s not there, suddenly it’s cold – that’s what it’s like. It’s maddening – literally. It could make you lose your mind, lash out, kill.

Ah. Maybe he did teach me something about grief after all. And let’s not forget an entire essay on the subject, called Truly Madly Deeply. Yes. My feet will want to march to where you are sleeping. But I shall go on living.

So to all my loved ones, and to all of his – to all of us who knew the warmth of that particular sun and still yearn for it; to all of us who walk now with fire and frost, with the snow burning our hearts, a hug of mutual condolence. Yes, we’ve taken down the decorations. But we must go on living.


Photos: Brigitte Lacombe and Uli Weber. Fine words: Neruda.