Her last party - 18th November 2007

The snow fell. Soft and white it blanketed the garden. We stepped out with virgin prints, her crutches left damp black holes. Bangs and sizzles, filtered through flakes as large as doilies. She lifted her twisted face, back bent, and smiled into the night. I hugged my son close to my side – tried not to look – the flakes tickled my eyes, made them damp. I mustn’t cry, I cannot cry.

By morning it was if the snow had never been here. The spent firework box remained on the lawn until spring.