Sprinklers - New York

There was an ambulance parked outside one of the houses on South Marine Terrace. It was still dark. Not yet day. About 5 am. There was no one inside the ambulance but the lights were on. Green.

Lots of serendipity. I forgot someone’s name, the name of singer, and then someone said it on the radio. And then this morning out walking listening to my favourite song. I listened to it twice only to hear it played on the radio on my return. Little things. Such little things make life seem circular, enfolded – everything is connected. Meant. Maybe.

We were sitting out of the rain. By the harbour on a rickety bench. A small man walked past. You called out a greeting to him. He stopped. Do I know you? he asked. I’ve got dementia, where do you live? You told him your name. He shook his head. His trousers were loose, hanging low over his shoes. They found two men in the harbour, he said. Drowned. Then he shuffled off, ignoring our goodbyes. He reminded me of another small man. I am reduced, he said.

The grey November gloom hangs heavy. We just have to sit it out, this waiting. I dreamt she came for us. A nice woman. Warm. He wanted to stay in the dark, hiding. She came for us nevertheless. Time to go. It was in Jersey. I’ve always wanted to go to Sark, I said. What is it like? I asked. Oh, you’d love it, she said as we walked out into the sunshine.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.