The year of firsts for some who mourn is coming to a close, For others, who may not know it yet, about to start, While ours has not yet halfway run its course But time both fast and slow, leaves us adrift, somehow stood apart. Everyday some little things, almost but not quite unseen, And first returns to places holding thoughts we fear. The Hospice, quickly in and out, to Christies, where I cannot breathe, And Church, must leave before the close, again in tears. And two occasions so far in our year, of harsh and painful note. For me, to London on my own, no shared excitement on the train, No hand to hold, bereft, my sole reflection in the windows, Hiding my tears in the street, silently begging for her return. For Helen, her birthday, marked by tears and absence, The parcel sent by me inadequate, a shadow of its former self, Which collected and collated by her mum would sparkle and excite, Causing her friends to envy how she always seemed to find Those things which Helen would find right. Occasions which in the past we would have graced have passed me by. Regular events with friends unnoticed through my haze, unclear. Perhaps some sighed and whispered to their neighbour, That tonight ‘Gill and Geoff would have been here’ But not this year. And still those moments, catching unawares, in bleak surprise When memories of some small action, some few words, bring tears to our eyes. At home, out walking, or watching Songs of Praise, Flooding back to loud and technicoloured life she’s raised. Christmas next, a time when Gill was in her place, Despite complaint enjoyed the search for tokens of her love. Some expected, handkerchiefs and socks, but others special and searched out, How will I do that, as standing mid the glitter and the glitz my mind is blank. Too soon December 31st, never a time for Gilly this, not just in recent years, She saw it as a signpost to mortality, of darkness soon to come, Life slipping by, sorrow and unknown sadness due, family and friends moving on, And doubtless it will seem like that to us this year, regardless how we felt before. Then thick and fast the firsts will start again, relentless, like Big Ben at twelve. In January our Ladies Night, we missed last year while she was drifting close to heaven. To February, her mother’s birth, at ninety four full thirty years more. Than Gill would be on March the twelfth, for both, how sad Now racing onward into April, hurrying past my day and Ian’s, Last year our anniversary in May, forty one, not counting now at all, Feeling bitter, cheated, for her not just for me, envious of couples walking by, But plan to mark the day by reuniting her with home, at Wetheral. The chosen place, by us, beneath the trees, quiet and still, marked by a stone. But also at her choice, in the Eden, by the waterfall, to float away to sea, And thrown to the wind at her favourite view, free to fly, from Orton Scar, Looking back and down the valley, enroute to my home, at Appleby. Then July, and over, once more around the sun completed, Will the second trip be different from the first? Our pain less sharp, our tears dry? Who knows, who cares, it matters little to the world which long ago moved on, depleted, Only to we three and those close friends who still protect and shield us when we cry. The questions still keep asking every day, Why her, why us? Why not? And if not we then others, many, Hurting still, and asking, why her, why him, why any? What if? Too late What now? Who knows? What next? Nothing for it but to wait and hope, for better days Not to forget, but to remember only love and joy, her spirit lifting our malaise. Sparkling and warm, laughing and loving as before, Her touch a witness, Her life and passing not unnoticed by the world, but marked, remembered, as by God. Our beautiful and brave and darling Gilly surely deserves that much, no less.