Today was the last day of Ramadan. Which means tomorrow is a day of celebration for Muslims, wherein colourful new clothes are worn, happy greetings are exchanged, and delicious food is consumed. I will partake in all of this, but not before first trekking to the cemetery, as has been my and dad’s tradition for the last…eight years. (Wow.) Most of the time I am used to her daily absence, but her absence during festive celebrations is something I still have a hard time dealing with. I feel angry. I don’t want that cold, dutiful pilgrimage to the cemetery. I don’t want to be part of this world of loss, whose inhabitants know which flowers will last the longest on a grave. I don’t understand how a mum, my mum, a woman of only 48, a woman whom I was just getting to know and love again after years of senseless teenage rebellion, can be reduced to a few square metres of flowers.