She stood in the sun, ready. Waiting for it. And yet it evaded her - that emotion, that presence, that shadow that should have been dripping over her plot of grass, over her feelings, over her day. It was absent.

There had been a moment, earlier - inside the room when she had stared at the cement wall and done sums in her head and realised: Yes. It has been almost as long since it happened as it has been at all.

And there were other moments too, (before): things she wished she could tell him, things she wondered if he knew.

But here under the green trees, on the streets he would have walked, in the air he would have breathed, the feeling was gone. And there was only herself alone. Not even grieving. Not even missing him. Not even sad.

She could explain it tritely if she wanted to: 'it's because he's always with me so I don't miss him anymore.' She could say it but she couldn't quite believe it.

The dreams had faded too: the ones where she couldn't stop running, seeing his curly head just around the corner, hearing his voice just down the street. She was never quite fast enough; she was always just a few steps too late.

She doesn't have those dreams anymore.

'But why? If he's gone from my subconscious has he gone from me? Or is he here more than ever? Has he perforated through me, suctioned up like the coloured water a carnation takes in through its stem? Is it just that I can't mourn his absence if he's never gone? Because he is, in fact, (trite as it sounds) here, with each of us. Always.'

And then all of a sudden it arrived - the warm face, the liquid eyes - the sadness. And she welcomed it.