The room is still but for hum of the radiator. My back aches but I can't bring myself to move. After midday and still in bed, my mother's scolding disapproval rattles round my head. I'm too sad to move. I'm too sad to do very much at all these days, for grief is a relentless thief of time, energy and colour.Since my father's death I watch the world, my world, as if on a cinema screen - it is flat, an illusion, and definitely make-believe. They all say 'it's a process', 'it will pass', and I suppose they are right, but the primal scream of loss in my head continues nonetheless.
