I think about her. I talk to her, in my head. Was she, is she wiser than me? I remember her reticence. The world was a frightening but also a wondrous place for her, as it is for me. Little has changed. For her the day to day was about managing her fears, as it is for me. They come in, unbidden, or so it seems though I know my mind brings them, hurls them into my thinking space. What are the fears of? Not being good enough, generally, or not meeting a deadline, or not finding any inspiration, of being emptied of all thought, original or not. And of displeasing others. That was a big one for her. I remember that. Mostly displeasing her. That was a frightening thing, at times a violent thing. But what of her joys, her pleasures? They were usually in the small things. Her things. Her room. Her bedroom, particularly the one at the farm with its split level, its little window onto the garden. How glorious it was to sleep alone after so many years of sharing with her sister. Her own space. Her posters, her music, her things. What were they, those things? Gimcrack stuff mostly. A musical jewellery box with the ubiquitous ballerina, an old teddy, a collection of her Dad’s old 45 singles, and her own, including Donny Osmond’s Puppy Love and his and Marie Osmond’s version of Paper Roses and her books – fairy tales books, exquisitely illustrated, Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven and Famous Five novels, and various Anna Sewell stories. She took care of her things. She still does. They were lovingly possessed, owned and treasured. It was her quiet space, her safe space, mostly. Was she wiser than me? I think she accepted things as they were better than I do. After all she had no false sense of power or agency. Things were done to her that were beyond her control. Her only power was in acquiescing, quietly, silently and staying out of the firing line, not putting up resistance. Resistance met violence, or at least had the potential to attract it. Oh, it wasn’t so bad. She wasn’t so bad. She was doing battle with her own particular demons, but the child, she was scared of the threat of violence. She was a quiet soul, a peaceful one, then. Can she be so now?

It promises to be a beautiful day.

I was thwarted in my intention to begin to put together his quilt. The material the woman had cut for us in the material shop wasn’t big enough. So I made flapjacks instead, read and did a meditation which is guaranteed to make me tenser as I always feel I do don’t manage to reap its benefits as I should. Heigh ho. I tried it. And the quilt must wait.

A quiet day.

Now for some tea.