Running For Matthew

Matthew had just turned 24 when he died. He left behind his parents, Adele and David, Holly, his partner of six years; five siblings; Bryonie, Lowri, Hannah, Alex and James, three brothers-in-law, eight nieces and nephews - and more friends than you could shake a stick at.

Where to start? Matthew was great, and I loved him. He loved his family, his girlfriend and his friends... there was nothing more he liked than a good film, nice company and a bit of food. He was proud of his work (and rightly so) marshalling aircraft and handling baggage at Norwich Airport. The other love in his life was his car, a Lexus IS. It was so beautifully kept, pristine, he'd clean it inside and out twice a week or more - come rain or shine we'd find him sitting there on the drive with his polishing cloth and wax.

And he was simply brilliant at technical stuff; fixing the unfixable; refining the audiovisual systems in our houses to the point that they were technically perfect, but so complex that nobody else could turn anything on without his help. He was helpful and friendly, every day after work he'd drive Mum to Tesco to help with the shopping, carrying her bags and making sure the heated seats were on for her in the car. He had so many friends, and nothing was ever too much bother for him. But even more than that, most of all, he was kind and generous and genuine. That looks like such a little thing written down; but it's not. These things are just about as important as it gets.

The last time I spoke to Matthew we were sat on the counter in Mum's kitchen, talking about films and the PS3 and life. I had made him a coffee and he, rather gamely, accepted it from me. (I make a very poor cup of coffee...). I remember I passed it to him, already apologising, but he just said "Han, it's fine, it's lovely" and gave me a nod of the head. I remember thinking at the time that the way his eyes were widening was giving the game away, but he finished the whole cup and thanked me for it on his way out the door. I never saw him again.

I, personally, have so many good memories of him, lots from when we were growing up together... leaping up and down on our parent's bed to The Final Countdown by Europe (quality song that it is); reciting Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade word for word - he always had to be Sean Connery - giggling uncontrollably at the bit where the knight gets his limbs lopped off in The Holy Grail, him taking up far too much room in the bed every time we went camping. But when I think of him now, most of all, I remember how kind he was about that horrible coffee, and how much I enjoyed talking with him about everything and nothing, and how sad I am that I will never get to do it again.

I run because it gives my sadness a physical release. I run because I love my brother, and when I'm covering mile after mile I feel at peace with my body and with my loss. For as long as I live I'll run for him and every time I lace up my shoes I will remind myself that whilst I am alive and he is not, he is still within me in everything I choose to do.

Matthew David Jones
b. 18th October 1984, d. 10th April 2009