She died in the spring, in defiance of the riot of life that comes after a harsh winter. No florals for me. I stand at her grave, half silhouette, half sentry, and wholly nothing. I don’t put flowers on her grave, as it seems to me an insult. As if I’m saying ‘look here, look at these colours you’ll never know. The scent you’ll never smell again. Here’s a reminder of the life that was stolen from you. Isn’t it…