My mum called at 8.30 to tell me dad had sliced his finger open on the hedge trimmer, and to see whether we were going to The Trees. Cue a split second of sick fluttery butterflies in my stomach. That's what happens on the 15th of December. It's been 13 years since my uncle P was stabbed in the head, and on the 20th it will be 13 years since he died.
The Trees are a little stand of gums and wattles that we planted on top of his ashes, in a clearing in Yarra Bend. There's a park bench, and a view, and there was talk of a plaque which never materialised. Every year on December 15, we would visit for a few minutes, light some incense, maybe cross paths with one of his friends. It has never rained.
This year, for the first time since it happened, it has not been the first thing I thought of when I woke up. Mum laughed when I told her I knew there was something on but couldn't remember what it was. 'Oh!', she said. 'You've recovered.' It's true. I finally have.
|Pic from here.|