It’s strange, but since his death I’ve hardly played the piano. I used to love it, but now I can’t touch a key without becoming incredibly emotional.
And then the nights, and waking up afterwards. I don’t want the day to end, and I don’t want it to begin.
Sometimes, at night, I climb over the fence at zorgvlied with a bottle of wine and talk to him — just like we used to, to end the day. His grave has truly become a place of comfort for me.
