A thousand is not a large number.

A thousand steps didn’t get me very far from where I started today. How many thousand steps have brought me to this park, not many at all.

If I picked a thousand blades of grass from the lawn in front of me no one would even know.

If I cut a thousand leaves from the trees in front of me now, here in the full flush of summer, it would barely be noticeable.

A thousand breaths are very few, on average it takes a little over an hour to do that each day, but a thousand days ago she took her last.

If I picked a thousand pebbles from the gravel path in front of me it wouldn’t make a single bit of a difference. I could walk out of this park now with a bag of stones and no one would stop me.

Did I say a thousand words today, I doubt it, I doubt it very much.

A thousand words is no story at all. If I write a thousand words I have barely started, I have scarcely cleared my throat.

A thousand blue skies hang above me.

If I travel a thousand kilometres straight up, I have hardly travelled anywhere at all.

She had a thousand smiles, but I wear two of them on me today.

A thousand lines is just beginning.

A thousand lines is a punishment for a child.

A thousand lines is a nothing penance.

A thousand litres of water are pumped through the fountain in no time at all.

A thousand litres is a cube measuring one metre by one metre by one metre, in the grand scheme of things it is barely a drop.

A thousand thoughts a day, but she is always among them.

How long did it take me to pass a thousand people today, not very long.

Are there a thousand people in this park now, possibly not. But by the end of the day how many will have passed through its gates?

A thousand benches are occupied today. A thousand places to sit in the sunshine.

How many thousands of kilometres have people travelled to be here today, how far have they come, and why?

If I had taken a thousand of the cancer cells that killed her, would it have made any difference at all?

I can blink approximately a thousand times an hour. Yet a thousand days ago she closed her eyes for the last time.

How many thousands of kilometres did she travel in her short life, how many more should have lain out in front of her?

If money could have fixed everything, how many thousands of Euros extra would it have taken, and ultimately how little would it have cost, to cure her?

If there were pictures of our ancestors from a thousand years ago, wouldn’t we recognise them, doesn’t little change in that time?

On average more than a thousand people die in the world every ten minutes, so many lives ending. In a world of billions these deaths are barely noticeable, until they are the most important deaths of all.

If I held a thousand of her cancer cells in my hand, could I even see them, would I even know?

A thousand nerve endings cover a thousandth of the surface of your lips. When we last kissed a thousand nerve endings covered barely anything.

A thousand sunny days like today. I know she preferred the turning colours of autumn, but she would have loved today.

A thousand regrets.

A thousand calories is a single meal, just one. What was the last meal we shared?

A thousand beats per minute sounds like an alarm clock, initially, but becomes strangely relaxing and meditative after only a few minutes, like a drone.

If I took a thousand of her cancer cells and spread them on a piece of bread and ate them, would I taste anything, anything at all?

Where I sit now in this park, my home is less than a thousand metres away as the crow flies.

Two men are talking about football as they pass, more than a thousand goals were scored in the English Premier League last season, yet it now feels largely forgettable, and everything resets to zero and begins again in a matter of weeks.

I could pick a thousand daisies from the grass, no one would notice.

I could rip the petals off a thousand flowers. It would achieve nothing.

If I took a thousand bricks from the buildings surrounding the park how many would collapse around me? It would do nothing to have helped her I know, I know, but.

A thousand days is nothing.

It takes a little over three hours for a heart to pump a thousand litres of blood. You just sit around and it happens. A thousand days ago her little heart could do no more.

Would a thousand extra tests involving any of the thousands of prospective treatments or drugs out there have achieved anything in time to help her?

A thousand seconds is a little over a quarter of an hour. A thousand seconds ago I was still in this park.

A thousand minutes is over sixteen hours. A thousand minutes ago I was doing very little, sitting at home, reading a book.

A thousand hours is over forty-one days. A thousand hours ago I was wishing my godson a happy birthday.

A thousand days. I know exactly how long that is. I know exactly when a thousand days ago was. I know exactly what I was doing a thousand days ago. A thousand days ago I was waiting for a message, I was waiting for a call, an email, I was waiting for anything from her to tell me how she was feeling, to tell me how much pain she was in, to tell me she was still alive. A thousand days ago I heard nothing.

A thousand days is nothing.