Life is like an escalator.
You step on as a baby, small and unsteady. Ahead of you are brothers, sisters and cousins. Your mum and dad are there, along with aunts, uncles, grandparents and even great-grandparents. They seem so far away.
As you rise, you grow. People ahead of you disappear, but new people appear behind you. Younger siblings, younger cousins. Small faces begin filling the steps where you once stood.
Halfway up. The crowd in front begins to thin. Your parents are still there, but they’re frail and old. A few cousins, perhaps an aunt or uncle, remain. Behind you, the escalator is crowded with your children, their partners, your grandchildren, and a lively throng of nieces and nephews.
Then one day, you look up and there’s no one in front of you. Your parents, your aunts and your uncles. All gone. You’re at the top.
You wave to the family behind you. You do not look back too often. Heights frighten you now. In your eighties, unsteady on your feet, you hold on to each other and grip the handrail a little tighter.
And that's when Syd puts his arm around Doreen’s shoulder and says, “Doreen, I think this is where we get off.”