So many roads lead my thoughts to him. He was my father, my teacher, my friend, my Captain, my leader. All the roads have led to a grief that has opened up again; the desperation, the fluttering in my throat, the unreality of my own presence, the wallowing in vacancy. Nothing stays still in grief. Grief is round and there is always another phase around the bend, and yet everything seems to repeat. Grief does not progress, it circles. And I’m on the cusp of accepting that each phase is not a graduation from the previous, but a reacquaintance and reintroduction to the arc.