I never want to go out in it. I wake to it and it makes me fearful, unsteady. He came out of his room this morning after hearing me wake to give me a hug. He said afterwards how much he’d liked it. You’re such a tiny person, he said. I don’t feel it. At least not physically. Inside I do. Fearful. I didn’t walk under the bridge this morning. I felt a bit scaredy-cat-ish and thought it best not to. Can people smell your fear, like sharks smelling blood? Possibly. Can dogs? Mum used to say that they could. Nothing I could do about it. Fear can’t be masked, hidden with scent. I walk anyway. And it feels good that I’ve done so. Now the light comes. Too slowly.
