I drew her room yesterday. I drew its collections of paraphernalia and objects she has salvaged from her long life – the teddies mostly. She is a strange mixture of toughness and softness. She looked well. “I’ve never been beautiful,” she said. She looks pretty though. And she maintains a diffidence and feminity that is characteristic, at least for as long as I have known her. She is clearly well-liked. The carers joke with her and call her soft names. She in turn keeps her door open so that she can hear all their noisy comings and goings. There is acceptance now of where she is, though less so, perhaps of who or what she is. I know those latter feelings all too well. How I like her, even love her. Keep well, my love.
