Is there ever a right or wrong thing to do? As I grow older I become less and less certain of anything. What is right, what is wrong? He sends me an email, full of vitriol. Is he right in what he accuses me of? I don’t know. My memory of that time is different to his. He is hurting. I understand that. But what can I do? It is her decision and has been for many years now. She is grown. If he wants to find her then he can. I cannot influence or stop that happening. I don’t know how I feel about it. It is between her and him. I have my own fears to deal with, my own uncertainties. I cannot carry his for him. I can do so little.
This making that seems to have taken over my recent days, and in between work and domestic stuff, it’s all I can do. And even that I don’t do particularly well. It is years since I made something on a machine. I’ve had a few. An old Singer, a wonderful 1950’s Bernina that was a lead weight and now this one. A cheapo plastic thing but it does, so far, and it is simple to understand with numbers showing how to thread it. I am all ham-fisted. I want it to go well too much. Is it the right size? Will she like the colour? I want to hurtle towards the end of it, to be assured of its success. Yet, at the same time I want to take my time, doing each step with care, love. It is my gift. I could buy one. They are cheap. Throw away prices. But this way I have formed something, something I hope she will wear. It has potency that. I think of the tales. The cloaks, the invisible coats, the shoes – the gifts of magical garments intended to protect, guide and nurture.
The morning is coming up. I walked round the other way this morning in the hope of chancing upon bakery smells. None. Not even a hot cross bun. The man was still sleeping in the shelter. In the adjacent one there were three bags of bread, in a row, half opened. Were they sandwiches? Were they donations of food? There was no one else about. Just the University security men doing their usual drive-round. Rubbish bags have been put out along North Road and Llanbadarn Road, some neat others more slapdash.
The pitter of the rain on my umbrella was lovely. The guano from the starlings under the Pier reeked. I couldn’t see the lights of Aberdovey, it was too misty.
I have much to do. Two bookings today. I got a call yesterday just as we were washing up after lunch. Can you get up there in fifteen minutes? It’s a bit tight, I said, irritated at having to rush. When’s the guest coming? He’s already there? Didn’t you know that you were supposed to book an opener? He said he had but couldn’t remember their name. So messy. I said I’d do it only to have him call back two minutes later to cancel it. So shabby. A shabby way of treating people. What can I do? This sort of chaos is beyond my control.
He is hurting. He is lashing out. Let it be. Let it roll. Be steady. Just love. That’s all you can ever do. Just love.
