Sometimes, April isn't the cruelest month. February can be.
It's been a year today, and still I will often reach for vanilla ice cream at the store before I remember with a sting that he's not here for it. We still, and probably always will, see him in a shadowed corner at the edge of vision, or on the other side of a window.
Oolie, shantih, shantih, shantih.
(With apologies to T. S. Eliot who, at least as Old Possum, would probably understand.)