I see you from across the lounge, but yet, I know, it cannot be you. Your face is a little rounder, your eyes brighter, but still I stare. You don’t recognise me, but I’ve seen your face before. Last time, you looked different, gaunt, tired and desolate. I could not forget your eyes.

But I know it’s not you. I know. For you are gone. You smile and laugh with those around you, oblivious  to my stare.

I sat alone in your haunted house. I listened to you breathe. I sat and heard the wind screech and wail and the rain hit the windows with your pain. Your one-eyed dog kept a respectful watch on me, the stranger in your home – he knew, to complain would be an insult to your suffering.

I said goodbye, but not really. I said I’d see you soon, but I knew I was lying. I think you knew that too. You didn’t have the strength to say anything else. And I didn’t have the courage to say the truth. You said you’d see me in Australia again, when your strength return. I knew then that was a lie.

But here you are, sitting in this departure lounge some months later. It could be you, with your smile, your crooked teeth, your laughter. But I know it’s not. You are dead my darling girl, except in my heart. And although others remind me of you, and I see your smile, your eyes, your courage, I know you are gone on ahead.