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It makes me a little sad to think that whatever I write here, it will not be good enough.
A hole in his heart from the day he was born, never able to run, to travel to exotic places. He escaped into words, into the works of the Bard. That was my father, all ways reading, buried into those books. My fondest memories of us together revolve around the times he would bring me to amature productions of the Plays, The Taming of the Shrew, Julius Ceaser(I was annoyed that they had omitted a scene.

In primary scho0l I was reading The comedy of errors, He had brought me the previous week and I wanted to read ot again for myself.

Eventually his heart got to him, his blood like soup. I had allways been told that it would. They kept pumping rat poision into his veins to keep the blood flowing, until they couldn't put any more in.

The eventual happened, I found him over the toilet, the bowl filled with blood, he could,'t move. An ambulance an eternity.

His blood had clogged, I didn't know at the time, they tell me, It was a massive stroke, it left him unable to speak to me. I saw him lying in the bed and he couldn't speak. A lolling tounge, sad dilated eyes, all the machines and tubes.

I guess the thing I later was so bitter about is that I didn't know, how much is a 13 year old to know? I couldn't understant why he couldn't talk to me.

I realised tonight, one of his aunts had brought some books for him, they were infants books, I realised now why they did that. They must have thought that the stroke had impared his ability to resaon, had rendered him a child again. With years gone by, (is it thirteen years already?) well now here I am in hindsight, but I think there is every chance that only his motor centre may have been affected.

I could have read to him, his beautifull Shakespeare, but it is too late now, ahh Brendan, you are missed.

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