Was it good enough, the way we lived our lives? Did we do enough, say enough, live enough? Love enough? Some days to be just enough, is enough. Just that breathing in and out, the motion of living without complexity or design. It is a hard enough art. Just that. Just that breathing in and out.
‘I’ve had some news’, he said, as he handed me the papers. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I got a letter from the NHS, they want me to donate me blood marrow.’
I ask if he will have to be hospitalised. ‘Oh, yes’, he says, ‘probably for seven to eight days. An’ they’ll have to put a needle into me pelvis, just there,’ he says jabbing at his hip.
He is full-up, made quiet with pride.
It is enough, this is enough, just enough. A good life, this.
A good enough life.