Woke up early and lay in bed for half an hour, trying to remember what he looked like

Showered for longer than normal, because she drifted off into a daydream about that day years ago when they were kids, and they ran riot with the hosepipe and sprayed each other until they couldn’t tell if all the wet was the water, or their tears of laughter, or pee

Had his favourite cereal for breakfast, even though the sugar hurt her teeth

Played Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon all the way through, and wept at Breathe, because, oh, the pain in him, the thoughts that must have been in his head

Read a poem by Sylvia Plath, with a line about life being a falling leaf, to their mum, and told her it would all be okay, knowing it was a lie

Huddled on the sofa, with her phone switched off, watching rubbish on TV she knew he would love - aching that he had never seen or known it

Buried her head under her pillow when she went to bed, trying to rid it of the memory - his ghastly, ghostly face; his swollen, bloated lifelessness; his body suspended and heavy and at the same time strangely light and free at last