In May 2000, my mother died suddenly. She was 61.
Emphysema crept up on her in a matter of weeks, and she turned from an energetic, active grandmother looking forward to retirement to wheelchair-bound within a few days. Then, as we were arranging for someone to come along and measure up the house for a stair-lift, she had a turn for the worse that proved to be terminal, her heart giving up under the strain of her destroyed lungs.
My abiding memory of the last days of her life was of barrelling up and down the M4-M5-A30, covering the 260 miles between my house and hers again and again, getting to know every skid mark, every service station on that stretch of tarmac and concrete. And then, one week before she died, we arranged to kidnap her from the Royal Cornwall Hospital with a wheelchair and half a dozen oxygen tanks and took her to the other end of the country for my brother's wedding in a country hotel.
It was a wonderful, celebratory weekend, and one of those very rare occasions that I've been together with my brother, sister and their own families in happy circumstances. It's not that we don't get on. We do. We just know where we all live, and that's good enough for all of us.
On the way back to Cornwall, as she dozed, this is the last song - a thing of beauty from an otherwise uninspiring album - that I played in the car, and it still gives me the goosebumps today to think back to that moment, knowing that time was running out and there was not one damn thing I can do about it.
Then, a horribly confused week, all of us thrown together, me sleeping in my childhood bunkbed, dreading the worst. And when the worst came, I was on a motorway somewhere at the moment of her death, travelling in hope to find all hope dashed as I arrived.
There were so many thing left to say.
So many things left to apologise for. Apologies that went unspoken.
And are still unsaid today.
And I don't know what I'd give to say them.
Thirteen years later, and I still love you.