Grief manifests itself in many different ways. Mine means that for a moment each day the fact you are gone breezes into my mind while I am thinking of something entirely different and it winds me into recalling our collective life. I see you dancing for me when I slept in your room, remember drawing pictures of your curly hair as a child, of secretly feeding cats in your garden, even when you said not to. But it’s the later years I remember also. These are the years that one would imagine I would want to forget. Your mind and memory crumbled as the dementia took hold. But I remember fondly the moments of lucidity. Of holding your soft hand in the rose garden, of the tears in your eyes, your eyes like mine, as I said goodbye each time I left. Of the funny moments: the times you would deny having eaten cake, your commentary during Italian game shows. Your insistence, always prevalent, that I absolutely mustn’t have a Serbian boyfriend. I miss you none, but I hope that where you are now there is cake, Oliver, roses and many colours.