I lit a light for you at Brompton Oratory late yesterday afternoon. Inside, it was dusky, incensed, the chapels candle-eyed. A fine sinewy man in bottle glasses changed the Virgin and child while I watched. A man from Belfast with stale breath and a lazy eye asked for change. I think I sat for an hour. A year, Kerry, a whole hideous year of being so strangely without you. We were half a world apart, but distance was in the detail and could not touch us. A year, and it’s not an exaggeration to say I think of you every day. The hole doesn’t get smaller, but some things do change. The anger has passed. The guilt at the anger has passed. Now my grief is a weariness, and a hurt that you didn’t want more of what we had so fervently promised each other. My dear girl, I’ve saved all the love you asked me to, and it grows, and it pains, and it makes the best and the worst of all this mess worth living if only because it’s in such complete memory of you. I miss you, kindred thing.