Sometimes stories just arrive. You don't really think about where they came from and mostly you don't need to know. Then there are those stories that demand to be written. That hang around until you finally give up and give them a voice.
That is where I found Six.
Six began in 1971 when I was a kid. (Don't do the maths, it's frightening.) My friend, a neighbour across the road, lost her brother in a car accident. We sneaked into his room one night, a shrine to his memory, scared we would get caught by her mother still grieving.
This is what I remember.
A Daddy Cool poster on his wall.
A tidy bed.
Shoes lined up neatly.
The stale smell of nothing.
Guilt that we had intruded upon this special place.
But mainly disbelief that this person's life had ended so abruptly.