my dad asked about you the other day, just said, hey, you spoken lately? and i said no, of course not, and i wondered how he missed how i’d listed sideways through most of january, adjusting to the new weight of myself. and he said oh, did you fall out? and i wondered what we could have possibly fallen out of, what was there that wasn’t built on spit and glue already? and i said yes, we’d fallen out, that’s what it was, baby bird meets hard ground, breaks on the concrete and that wing’s never going to look the same again. and he said that’s a shame, and i thought, it was always a shame, wasn’t it though? and my phone backs up all my photos whether i want it to or not, so i scroll past december like driving past a car crash, the bone is sticking out and it’s making me dizzy, okay? and i finished my breakfast and i thought, god, it’s nearly been a year. how do i mark the anniversary? do i leave flowers on a patch of earth that could be yours? no, too melodramatic by far. easier to breathe through the pain and the way i still sometimes think of your name. and then i thought about how i have blackcurrant and clove and the smell sticks to me until i can’t find anything else underneath it, and how i’m okay with that. i wasn’t expecting a clean amputation. i know as well as anyone can, how a scar can itch for years after it’s been torn open.