It's strange, the images that come unbidden to your mind in times of grief. You can't control them any more than you can control the tears that accompany them.
For me, it's the hog's head, pink and soft, simmering in a pot. It's mouth is open slightly, and it's nostrils are flared. It looks back up at nothing, sightless and empty.
I crouch and hide from it as the adults go walking through the kitchen, pulling down bowls and utensils.
That's the image that won't leave my mind as I stand in the crisp fall air beside the grave. Hog's head stew and a warm kitchen. Smells and laughter and cigarette smoke.
Things that will never again be replicated, not like they used to be.