Just back from a funeral abroad. My best friend’s mother died. Now I’m home. It’s raining hard outside. I’m listening to Nick Drake, and wondering about death and loss. Drake's music is exquisite, forlorn, and yet transcendent as watching a bird in flight. A talented but troubled young man, he was shy and withdrawn, and sold only a handful of albums in his short career. Frustrated and despairing, he overdosed on antidepressants in 1974, aged 26.
I’m listening to this last song off his final album. I think of Gary and his mother. Wherever she is, I hope she’s flying.
“And now we rise
And we are everywhere
And now we rise from the ground
And see she flies
And she is everywhere
See she flies all around"
- Nick Drake, From the Morning (1972)