The second year I thought was harder than the first. Now, I think this year is harder than the second. As time goes by, the finality of death slaps me harder in the face. It becomes clearer that this is it. “Deal with it. Despite all the help and love in the world, you have to do this on your own for the rest of your life” says the merciless voice in my head, “You will never see him again. Get used to it.”

Each breath strings up a bunch of moments together and one by one they slip and slide away. On some days the seemingly humungous task of getting from the front door of the house to the car takes forever. At other times, hours fly by like weightless nebulous clouds on wings. Seconds linger like sumo wrestlers battling with sleep, yet a week can be gone in a flash.

Red-hot intensity of grief starts to tire and turns to ashes of resignation. Questions know they are unanswerable and yet they incessantly repeat their customary laps round and round the velodrome of headspace. Like a stubborn arrogant squatter, guilt refuses to pack its bags and evict this cold, dilapidated building.

What is better? What is worse?
What is the truth?
Who makes that judgement?
The witness?
Or the witness of the witness?