The days between the 13th of July and the 10th of August are always long days for me but this year has been the worst.
Anger and repressed memories clamouring to be allowed screaming room.
An hour can go by and I realize I've been staring out of the window with nothing in my mind but tears on my face.
Watching that small coffin at Geelong today set me off again. Poor child, to be so hounded that dying was better than living.
I hate cemetaries. They serve no use at all, there's no comfort there just concrete and dirt.
I hate these 28 days of winter.
He started dying on the full moon of July and stopped living at the full moon of August.
And every year the questions pour out.
Was I there enough?
Was there anything I could have done?
Was there one thing in his life that made him happy to be my son?
I'll never know now.