Black borders aren’t only for funerals – they remind me of the charred trees in winter, like words on paper. By my bed there is a picture of us covered in furs, surrounded by snow. The sky is that oppressive grey that you only see on Russian cemeteries, full of crows. Although the path has been cleared for walking it is still a long way for feet to reach pavement and farther yet to the dark, moist earth of summer. I know this because for months we do not see asphalt, dirt or withered grass. We are at a graveyard of a monastery, so the sky is a welcome guest after all. I want to believe that I am holding your hand, but I’m not. Instead, I am looking at the graves and you are looking at the camera because at that moment you are happy and hopeful. You feel the weightiness of your heart, your youth, your beauty and the knowledge of the subsequent; you know all of the things which I have yet to find out, but for the time-being you will be happy and I will be happy, and our future will photograph us at that precarious second.