January thirteenth

Yeah, well. Here we are one year later. I guess to the day, but the doctors aren’t always right about everything are they. We only have that scribbled piece of paper to go by. I still have part of you here with me, a small pill box in my top drawer on which your brother penned your full name in simple calligraphy.

I am still thinking of where I should finally put you. To let you rest. But then the question… just one place? Or do I take you here and there, to the roads where we sat for hours on the curb, and the fields you would walk me through.

All of these places I realised long ago, were outside - far from both our homes. We only ever felt free while walking away. But I can’t really leave you in the park, or the castle ruins or windblown hillside, because it’s supposed to be somewhere you were happy isn’t it? And looking back, seeing the ghosts of our memories of this place, I struggle to remember where that was.

The beach I suppose. You were never any good in the city. From what you would write me, the sand and rocks and tide were the only constant for you. Looking out into nothing maybe the closest thing to solace. Waves taking you away from the land behind you. Always shifting. An always open door. So until I can get to the right place, I will just have to keep you for a little longer, in the only other place I knew you to be happy. Here, with me. 
I am in no rush to let you go.