Four days. Four short and yet endless days. 96 hours and each one crept past taunting me with jibes and ridicule. Ninety six hours living out our life together through her tiny fingers clutching my index finger with the delicacy of a butterfly landing on a leaf. 4 days. 
 
It was a grey day. It is November it is supposed to be grey and damp so it was. The sky had been whitewashed in a dirty grey and in places it was still wet. Over there somewhere beyond the gates of this haven someone had hung the canvas of a Manchester skyline. 
 
It was still. The haven was still and lifeless with a thousand souls enshrined in a thousand boxes. Her soul was free. Her soul is free. She dances amidst the flowers in the flowerbeds on either side of the path. 13 magpies circled overhead coming to land periodically before rising up again to carve up the sky with their monochrome wings. 
 
Four days. 25 years. Twenty five occasions where I am compelled to see 13 magpies dancing before I can move from the spot by the flowerbeds on either side of the path. I miss you...still. 
 
Daniel Picave supports the work of Tommy’s, the baby charity working with parents who have suffered neonatal loss. 
Tagged as: Loss
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