After the funeral I remember flinging flower covered wreaths onto our roof. I didn’t really see the point of it, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to just leave them lying around; withering. My mother was the one who initiated it, her glassy-eyed gaze adamantly advised we followed. And so we did. I hate those wreaths. People attended, and bought them out of respect, I understand. But they attend the funeral, and by the reception they are too tipsy or absentminded to be hurting. They leave their wreaths and muttered sympathies. They go home and find their way into bed, thanking God that it wasn’t them and perhaps they hold their husband or wife a little closer that night. And then it ends. It becomes a forgotten tragedy, a blip in their memory as time passes. But for me, times doesn’t simply go on. There are no memory losses or fading of events through time lapse. They hurt and then they heal. This will never heal. It burns in me day in, day out, it creates a space inside of me in which it will always stay, and become more prevalent when there is a gap in my thoughts or room for more. I have never wished for anything more than I have wished for his presence. I dream, I think, I feel it every day. I knew, I know that this will always hurt. And I don’t need a selection of flowers arranged in a wreath to remind me.