It is a mad, mad, mad world where you go to the cemetery to sing "Happy Birthday" to your son who would be 2 now. His little sister (now much older than he ever was) joins us, too young to take in the meaning of the gold letters etched in black stone, the dates below his name, the cross that represents the 16 days in between.
We are starting to tell her: "That's your brother, Ewan." We point at pictures. We pointed at the stone and said his name.
I want to throw up.
