I realised there were going to be certain occasions when I would miss the boys more than any other. The obvious ones like Christmas and our birthdays were almost too painful to think about. Fortunately I had that wonderful family of friends to take the sting out of my grief and loneliness that first Christmas. There were other times, however, when the memories would sneak up and I found myself, unexpectedly, in situations where I couldn't avoid my desolation and missed the boys desperately.
When it snowed that February, I wandered up to Highgate to visit the grave on my own. The snow was that lovely powdery type that sparkles in the sunlight. I needn't have had any fears about not finding the site under all that snow because as I came to the bottom of the hill I was greeted by a sight that made me roar with laughter.
Standing in front of the grave was the loveliest snowman I had ever seen. He wasn't tall by snowman standards, about two feet at the most, had a broad, cheeky smile on his face and an upside-down flowerpot with a red rose stuck in the hole, on his head. I was once again overjoyed at people's sensitivity to the way the boys would have liked to be remembered; it didn't surprise me later to learn it was Herbie.
On my way home I passed Hampstead Heath and decided to stop for a walk in the snow. The sun had come out, lighting up the scene with lovely pale colours contrasted by a deep blue sky and dark silhouettes of the trees. The scene was reassuring like a Christmas card but my dream was quickly shattered by the squeals of laughter coming from the happy families playing in the snow, throwing snowballs at each other and racing down hills on makeshift toboggans. All of a sudden, vivid memories of Daniel and Nicholas sprang to mind and I desperately wanted to join in the fun and be part of a family again. Knowing I couldn't, I began to wish the snow would go away.
