ONE YEAR

It’s been one year.

A year ago today I was standing in the middle of an oval in Dampier with members of the writing group to which I belonged at the time, preparing to read The Alphabet Book of Murderers to a crowd we were hoping would arrive any moment. And then I got the call.

Luscious. Three words.

Blake. He’s gone.

And I was already running for the car.

One year since he took his own life. One year since he left us with nothing but grief and questions, and no belief that either of them will ever be put to rest. One year since our world fell down around us. Since then we’ve lost all momentum, all desire to pursue our own lives, our own ambitions. I don’t write. I don’t build. I don’t exercise. Luscious is all that and more. We’re waiting for something that will never arrive, and we don’t have the energy to get up and find it.

I don’t have any more words. Just that. It’s not fair. It’s never going to be fair. It’s never going to be right. And it’s never not going to hurt.

None of this is fair.

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