Dai came round this morning to ask if I wanted a hand with the fence along the top field. I said I was fine. I wasn't, particularly, but I didn't know how to explain that the fence was the only thing that morning making any sense to me, so I'd rather do it myself.

He didn't push it. He just stood there for a minute, looking out at the valley the way he does, and said, "Take your time, then," as if I'd asked him something entirely different. I think he understood anyway. People here don't say much. It's one of the things you liked about it.

I found one of your lists in the kitchen drawer. Just an ordinary list — seed potatoes, twine, something for the greenhouse door that never got fixed. Your handwriting always leaned to the right when you were in a hurry, and this one leaned so far it was nearly lying down. I don't know why that undid me more than anything else has this week, but it did. I sat at the table with it for a long time.

I keep waiting to run out of things to miss and instead I just keep finding more of them. Small ones. The particular way you said my name when you wanted me to actually listen. The sound of your wellies by the back door, which are still there, still slightly muddy from the last time you wore them.

I fixed the greenhouse door today. It felt like something to give you, even though I know that doesn't make sense.