I knocked on her door with a half dozen red roses in my hand.  As always they were freshly picked from my garden. As always, there was no reply.  As always, I carefully laid them down on the step, knowing that when I returned, they would be gone.  She said that she would never leave, that red roses were her favourite flower, that August was her favourite month. and that she would love me forever.

She was wrong.  She did leave. She didn’t love me forever and when the car hit her two years ago on August 1st, how could August be her favourite month?