I hear stories piecing you together in my head, imagine what you look like, how you use to dress. I imagine small eyes enlarged by glasses that hid eye brows and graze cheeks. Bright red cheeks from all the laughing, acing cheeks from all the smiles.

I like to put you in a summers dress, on a warm day down at the beach, but the dress isn't a beach dress- the trip was spontaneous with no time to change; there was someone their you just had to see.

I like to place you in a play park, on certain days of the year, watching the children skip, slide and swing, spying on one child in particular.

I like to picture you at home with your arms wrapped around me, where we are just sat together watching tv, nothing special; because every now and again

I like to imagine you hadn't died in child birth, and that you got to watch me grow up, and that I got to see your face, so I could actually describe it in detail.