Three years, Yuvali, and we are still within a dense fog.

Afraid of the awakening, it hurts horrendously, unbearably.

During these three years we have ground our teeth down to stubs.

Day in and day out,

You live among us in a million forms.

Solid and rugged for one moment and in the next – fluid and fluffy.

Warm and close here, evasive and unattainable there,

So much here and yet so unachievable.

You appear and participate, as a partner, in uncountable ways.

One of them, the most incredible of them, is the ruddy complexion of Daniel’s cheeks. A pallet of the landscape of your own cheeks, rosy and pink, full and inviting.

He too, like you in an inexplicable way, coins the words Pizza and Cola like a line from a poem.

We eat things that you liked and remember you, we drink beverages that you preferred – and ruminate about you.

We hear the echoes of your laughter bouncing around the house. We see the sights that do not diminish despite the passing of the years, and hang on - like a drowning person clutches a straw – to that fog, that saviour from madness.

Many changes have occurred here during the year, and I feel you accompanying us all along the way, walking between the walls of our heart, painting it’s chambers in a white light, banishing the darkness.

You are our private, internal blossoming grove, blooming in white, dispensing a heady scented fragrance,

Noting the spring of our lives - the good, succulent period.

Day follows yet another day and you are inadvertently elusive.

And we hurt for you; we want you just once more, just a little; we want so much it hurts. We want and can’t.