We should be gathering in my Grandmother’s house. Talking, listening, laughing, crying, for my Uncle died yesterday, after a long battle with Cancer.

I should be helping with endless pots of tea, making trays of sandwiches, lining up apple tarts on the counter top next to the fridge covered in magnets and washing another and another round of mugs, as family, neighbours and friends call in.

For the house to be full of people, some sitting on the arms of the armchairs, and spillin out into the back garden; but none of that can happen.

None of the rituals or gatherings which allow us to offer comfort with a glance or a touch. We won’t get share stories, to listen to our elders and our generation speak of him. To learn more of our family history, and the bonds between them, the ache when the first of siblings dies. To raise a glass together.

I should be in the kitchen or often as we were as grand kids, out in the back garden or even sitting on the stairs among family. But we can’t gather, and it is crueler then I could of imagined.

But we mustn’t gather so we do not loose anyone else.