#32nd letter to Khodayar

Dear Khodayar, today I manage to catch some winter sunlight coming through the bedroom window as I write to you. I can hear the faint call of a bird from outside. As I lift my eyes from this page I see spider webs glittering in the lemon tree. The fruits are plentiful and yellow. I hope you are well - I hope you can be safe. In these last few months I haven't thought of you so often. Is that cruel of me? It seems that the flowers I am holding for you have slipped from my hand and fallen in the dirt. How careless of me. How careless of the world. When you were alive you could tap my shoulder and walk into my room. But now that your life has been snuffed out I must go looking for you - you will never come for me. I walk beside Dandenong creek to get to your final camp. The burnt patch of ground where you died is very hard to see now, but I have the tree next to it well decked out with your photo, with flowers and with your final statement. How many others still come here to remember you? The Hazaras still come here to play sangirag. They choose this place specially in remembrance of you. Love Stephen