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It had been four years since my wife died. Four years. Some days it seemed like much less; those were the days I got out of the house at any cost. We hadn't got around to having a child in the six years of our relationship and at the time the feeling of loss was devastating. One positive, if there could be anything positive to come out of losing the person you thought was your life partner, was that you discovered without doubt who your friends were and who really cared about you. As the skies darkened and the nights lengthened from autumn into winter I decided to take a break from life for a few days. I got some time off work, jumped on a plane and flew 3 hours south to spend some time with Jennifer's parents. They were farmers, honest hard-working people and it was entirely possible that losing their daughter had hit them harder than it had hit me. The old saying that parents aren't supposed to bury their children rang true. We had always got on well despite me being a city-slicker and over time we had learned to deal with our grief together.

Graham and Barbara farmed in the high country, at the foot of a parched chain of mountains and valleys which shimmered like a mirage in summer and froze under about four feet of snow in winter. Barbara met me off the plane with a hug and we drove into town so she could collect some supplies before we launched into the two hour drive to the hills and the farm. She gossiped constantly as she drove, filling me in on the events and changes since I'd last been down. I listened and looked out the window at the familiar scenery whipping past. The mountains were ...

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