Most of us migrate there once a year, to decorate, to talk, or just look at. The post was decorated with the vine of her namesake, a candle plus one that T added, my white rose and day-old flowers already wilted.

I feel we're at a good level now, we're in a good place. Her brother left a note on that big metal box next to the lamp post, telling her some good bands she would have liked. J's writing is still on the back of it, faded, but still there. "I miss my beautiful friend."

I look at all these old but familiar faces that I've been spending my nights with, and I miss what could have been. Who would she be now?

If I think about her too long, it becomes something sad. But if I only take a moment to reflect it can be pleasant, smile-inducing. Here I am, though, and I've passed my limit for the night.