Every. Minute. Of. The. Day.

From where you’re standing you can’t see, but you are certain – as certain as death in February – that she is wearing that lipstick that matches her coat. The lipstick you bought for her to wear at your father’s funeral. She hadn’t realised where she was, or what was happening. Hadn’t noticed the dark nods and empty smiles of his friends as they paid their last respects. Hadn’t noticed the splintering of your voice as you repeated and repeated and repeated the line, ‘Dad passed away.’

From where you’re standing you can’t hear, but you are certain – as certain of the stage four diagnosis she received last month – that she’s asking and asking and asking the lady the same question, ‘Where’s Stan?’ Nothing changes. When he was alive she wanted to know where he was. Her eyes were on him, her fingers in his pockets, fumbling for clues, checking up on his movements, Every. Minute. Of. The. Day.

From where you were standing, though you couldn't understand it then – no more than you can understand it now – she wore her pink lipstick while she scrabbled about the private spaces of your father’s life, asked her questions, made her accusations, pecked and pecked and pecked at his dignity for so long she eventually lost the meaning of it all.

From where you were standing, though you couldn’t understand it – no more than you can understand it now – he was the only one prepared to care for her. You couldn't do it. Not after all these years. You know you couldn’t cope with the same questions over and over and over again. Every. Minute. Of. The. Day.