For Max

I am Sandar, Isaac’s mum. Ize is one of The Boys and I am one of The Mums. We have been growing up with each other for many years.

I enjoyed being part of them in my role as chauffeur, mean mummy, or cheer leader. Isaacowenmaxdashandlouis was a five headed being which roamed around Queens Park, collected in the local school ground, slumped over the furniture, and raided the fridge. They wore the same clothes, loved the same sport (but not teams), and grew into amazingly gorgeous young men.

Max was in a group of boys who were his equal. He was loved and loved in return openly and unreservedly. When Max was too wilful, they tempered him. When they were too reticent, he encouraged them. When the five boys were in the house I would hear their constant teasing and joking. They might be watching telly or playing video games but one could still hear Owen’s wise-guy cracks, Max’s wacky observations, Dash’s caustic take, Louis’s quiet comment, or Ize's sensible remark. The boys were lucky to have found each other and as the years went on, they knew it.

The Mums became friends as well. We ferried the boys to playgroup, dropped them off for parties or play after school. We arranged half-term visits and holidays together. We performed at school events as The Housewives from Hell and gained quite a reputation as embarrassing mums. We put them on the bus to Gordon Brown, the ski trips, the gap year, and slowly we too were woven into the fabric of the community of Boys. We are all so mixed up that my love for Isaac overlaps with my love for them all. I didn’t even realise this was happening.

I miss Max. His lanky droll manner, his twinkling eyes, his slightly nasal voice, his sweetness and vulnerability. I remember his steady progression from a boy who was adorable but slightly maddening to one who was witty and lovely. I remember chats in the kitchen when Max was worried or dejected about life. He was so open and real about his concerns. I remember leading the boys somewhere when they were little and Max as usual was ambling behind the group, amiable and absorbed. “Get with the program, Max”, I would shout and he’d quicken his pace, for a moment.

At the big football match for Max a friend explained to me why Max was such a good footballer. He said that most people played by strategic rules but Max played by Freedom.

I have found Max’s death to be unbearable. Tears are liable to well up in my eyes at anytime and catch me by surprise. I know that our memories will be forever divided between when Max was alive and After Max died. He couldn’t have imagined such a thing.

I am greatly helped by our mutual support. We stand together like musk ox taking the cruel winter blast of death - dumb but strengthened by the herd. Is this what will make it bearable? Is this what will carry us through the next year? It is so early and we all have so much further to go. However, I am comforted by the love and care Max gave and got. Reading your memories and stories helps me see Max again and know him a bit better.

The last time I saw Max, I was passing his house, he was in his front bedroom. He had been over the night before to say goodbye, so he had obviously missed his plane. He looked out, shrugged, and we both blew extravagant kisses to each other. My goodbye, it turned out, was joyous and ridiculous and spontaneous. Quite fitting for this wonderful guy.

Love, Sandar