When I was a kid and nothing bad had happened in my life, everything was measured by fun milestones: before I learned to ride a two-wheeler or after, before I got my first pair of white red-stone roller-skates or after, before I first solved the Rubik’s cube or after, and then after Trixie Belden came into my life, major events slotted between the various thirty-six volumes.

This week on the Socials, Jamie Oliver posted a pic of his wife’s screen-saver.  It was a whole lotta Harrys from 1D.  He mentioned that his own screen-saver is a picture of vegetables.  So I thought it would be funny to send him a pic of a “rude veg” that is in my Insta feed.  So I started scrolling back through, looking for the pic, and then I stopped.

The pic of the turgid turnip that I was looking for was from before.

From when Hayls was still alive.

Hayley was the one who got me into Instagram.  She got me following Jamie and David Loftus and Essena O’Neill.  She was one of my few followers in the early days, and she was one of the few I followed.  She told me to start instagramming stuff. Told me it would be fun.  Told me to practice taking pics for when we would be ready to do a blog together.  When she was done with the cancer.

So as I scanned through my old posts, I could clearly define when she died.

I could go back and have a look at pics that she had commented on, pics we had discussed, pics that she teased me about.  The pics from before.

And then it was after.

All of the pics from after that prove that the world still does on, that life continues to happen somehow.  And that just doesn’t seem right.  There should be no more pics.  Things should just stop, shouldn’t they?