And just like that, the year is over. We all walked to the park, my husband and I and the three children, and we climbed up the hills which look like they were meant to be a bike track but are covered in grass and beautiful with white yarrow and purple clover and yellow buttercups in the autumn and we scattered the ashes we had collected from the vets and said goodbye. Then we walked back and past a tree with tiny copper-coloured buds, like flames, or like phoenix feathers. Even before the old year has quite finished, the new one begins.
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