Hubby tells me to take notes. To write down everything, or I'll forget what's been happening since the whirlwind entered our lives in late October.

I won't forget.

Every moment is emblazoned on my heart. Ripping it, just a little. And I try to mend it and put it all aside, because really, it's not for me to do - it is inappropriate - and then the call comes or the Wastebook message or the email and I feel my heart ripping again.

Just a little more.

And I cry. And I do what I can to help. And I cry, privately, some more. And then I do my best again to put it aside and concentrate on what I need to do to keep body and soul together (not to mention the house).

It will all be in a story, or series of stories, at some point. Not now. Not in a year. Or five, or even a decade. But it will come out.

Until I am strong enough to sift through everything, it hibernates inside me.

Write it down? I don't need to.

I'll never forget.