They carry you far, in a wooden box, all tied up and pretty. You’re like a present. It’s as cold as Christmas.

They lower you into a cavity within the ground. It is slippery and we all wear scarves. Mine is blue. They took yours away. It was orange. I shut my eyes tight.

There’s a harsh wind and the dry crackling of leaves sounds like a cruel laugh. I am irrationally angry.

Your parents look like wizened versions of themselves; like figurines made from porcelain with cracks running through them. It’s a sea of colours in the middle of nowhere.

Your wooden box is now rapidly buried under lumps of semi-frozen soil. I watch, unblinking, until I can see it no more.

It’s real. It’s happened. It’s over. I can’t find my voice. So I turn around and walk away, leaving a pair of uncertain footprints in the snow.