Little I played with him at Lyndhurst in the trimmed dull green grass that stretched on for miles further than memories. The sun on our shoulders, Mud on our trainers and half way up our trouser legs. We scratched our knees on the brambles as we ate from the magical blackberries, our red, chapped lips stained blue. Our chestnut hair lay flat on our heads and our cheeks were plum-coloured, our fingernails bitten. We travelled through hidden mysterious worlds, filled with elves and fairies and humans with macaroni hair. The days went by. Fast. Too Fast. And work began to arise. We rushed past the brambles at Lyndhurst and ignored any scratch on a knee. The world seemed ordinary and plain and not like our childhood fantasies. The city was a gargantuan silver, man-made canyon. In summer, the bouncing lasers of light, contrasted to the dark, hollow prison cells of desks and notebooks, our faces superglued to our screens in which we worked. And then there came a time when he got very sick and sat at home with nothing to do but eat marmalade on thin slices of bread. So at once I called him and he said not to bother because he hadn't got long left. But I said, "Deary, please, if you're going to die soon, you might as well die here". And I dragged him by his wrinkled, grey arm, to the place where the grass is a dull-green, stretches further than memories, where elves and fairies live, where there are people with sticks for their noses and macaroni hair. And we sat down by the brambles, our cheeks flushed red. Memories like fine wine. And we each ate a blackberry as he drew his last breath.