There’s a large white butterfly perched on the flowers outside the window. I’d normally be at work at this time, but exited early when a friend phoned with the news that a mutual friend is dead, probably by suicide. Facebook is full of RIPs; she was only in her mid-twenties, and I hadn’t seen her online for a little while but then she was always a busy girl, a bouyant personality nicknamed after a precious stone for her brightly dyed hair. I have a painting of some hares I was going to put online but couldn’t get it uploaded successfully; I think it’s one she would have liked. But now I won’t ever get her opinion on the painting, or see her at a festival, or sit outside a cafe with a cappuchino again, shooting the breeze. 11 months ago I was at her wedding.
I don’t know when or where her funeral will be.