I wanted to write something for Bec’s anniversary. Something moving and thoughtful and profound to commemorate her in a fitting way. Something epic to reflect the enormity of the gap she has left. Something comic to represent the humour she always brought to a situation. But my heart won’t let me, this year. My fingers can’t type all the thoughts in my head. My heart can’t withstand the tsunami of emotion that breaks if I try to form words and sentences in poetry or prose. I want to write her a letter, a poem, a song, an article about surviving grief, a reflection on being the only one left now, with no sibling to recall our shared history. But I can’t. Not now. Not this year. All I can do is look through photographs and smile and cry and remember what we had and regret what we don’t have now. All I can do is try to join the dots and connect some of the jigsaw puzzle pieces that fall between the photographs. The memories of blackberry picking and whispe