As I watered the plants in the garden yesterday I noticed that nearly all the lovely flowers on the rose bush have turned into little brown bulbs and deadheads. On attempting to tie some of the branches together, it was obvious to me that all the thorns are still there.

It suddenly dawned on me that holes are already starting to appear in my memory. The roses are fading but the thorns are still very much present. I need to turn that around and keep the roses alive. The beauty and passion of the roses will hopefully keep the thorns in the background.

My son and I are foodies. He could never fathom how anyone could like avocados. They taste like paper, he thought. Similarly, almonds and walnuts in cakes and deserts annoyed him a lot. He thought they just tasted like ‘sticks’ and were highly avoidable in smooth and luscious desserts such as rice or semolina pudding.

Last evening a young girl on the underground train was chomping away at a granny-smith apple. She reminded me of him. He loved those. I always had them in the house when he was around.

We loved going out for meals. It was our way of spending time together, uninterrupted. We could have proper long conversations and a few heart to heart exchanges.

He was a light hearted young man who felt everything intensely. His frustrations and his triumphs. His melodies and rhythms. His love and his struggles to control, understand, analyse, frame and make sense of this crazy world.

He was my muscle boy. Especially proud of his triceps. He held his secrets close but sometimes a crooked smile with a twinkle in his eye gave it all away.

He enjoyed reading Kafka in German and Voltaire in French. And also owned a Holy Bible – a pink one.

He was sweet. My drummer boy.