I sobbed and wailed and hung on to Ray as we stood near the spot where our son's body lies.
I sobbed because we weren't on a father's day outing, because Ray has no son to hold, because Ray will be 38 next sunday and his father died at 38 and he has no father to wish a happy day to, because I haven't sobbed for quite a while, because it's all so bloody, monstrously unfair, because I want us to be parents, because I miss George.
The trees absorbed my noisy sobs. The ferns didn't care that I wiped my nose on my sleeve. Ray held me tight and told me he thought about George every day, I held Ray tight and told him I loved him, that I think his father would be proud of him, that we should get out of that place and go somewhere, anywhere...
I wish I'd taken tissues today.