“Here lies Harry. A much loved guinea pig.” Eight words written jaggedly on the horizontal bar of a wooden cross built from two pieces of rough wood. Ours wasn’t a Christian house, but even at the age of ten I knew everyone (and everything) important was buried with a cross. Interment was under the old orange tree by the site of the original farmhouse. It seemed right to bury her there as the new house was… new. The family’s roots were entwined with those of the orange tree, and I wanted her amongst them, secure in earth’s diurnal round.