When the year turned, I awoke to a marble white sky, streaked with ashen grey. In the blanket softness of early morning children sleeping, I listened to the answerphone and knew that she had gone. She had held on until another decade began and fallen to another world at 5 o'clock in the morning, after nearly 90 years of spheres revolving. When the year turned we caught ferries, crossed the water and held each other. Red earth became intimate with our smartly polished shoes. We said prayers, ate egg rolls and squeezed familiar flesh; we recognised the living blood running through our veins. When the year turned, we said goodbye to her. We fell and we stood tall and we walked on. Turning, when the year turned.