The road through the mountains crossed over a tired, long-since dried river bed, and further ahead on the horizon, a row of wind turbines stood as silhouettes against a hazy sky.

I glanced at Ana, whose focussed eyes and furrowed brow had taught me that a deep and rhetorical thought was imminent.

​​“I think when I’m gone I’d like one of those small, toy windmills on my grave.” She spoke softly, her eyes fixated on the distant wind farm.

“Our lives might have an expiry, but those little blades will keep turning, just as life continues to spin on after we’re gone.”

​​She broke from her stare and turned to see the wry smile on my face.

​​“What? I’m serious.”

I laughed, ​​“I know, but that sounds a little understated for you. No marble busts or water features to mark your resting place?”

​​Ana let out a sigh with a tone of disapproval.

“I think that’s just unnecessary extravagance, and what does it matter anyway? It serves to remind, and before long, no one that needs reminding will still be around.”

​​Her pessimistic and slightly depressing commentary produced an uncomfortable pause that was left lingering in the air.

I squinted ahead, into the shimmering heat that was radiating from the tarmac; we’d been driving for over an hour without seeing another vehicle.

“Go on, what would you have then?” Ana asked, breaking the silence with a jovial tone that served to sweeten what had become a slightly dark conversation.

“A bench”, I said with little hesitation. The truth is I’d thought about this before.

“There’s a quiet little corner, by the river in Richmond-” I trailed off.

The thought of that scene, a bright Spring day on the shore of the Thames, secure and certain, was a far stretch away from how I felt now.