The answer was cherry. We’d got it wrong. It wasn’t discomfort but disconcert. Making the first letter of the one across c not f. And yesterday evening was not much better. It was dire, I said this morning. No, he said, not dire but we should’ve done better. I was tired and he was a little distrait. It’s my going away, it unsettles both of us, always. We both like the flow, the steadiness, me most of all I think, and I yet I always break it. I am always the one leaving. There is nothing he wants to do, and I? Well, I want to do everything, feel everything, see everything, and yet, and yet I want to stay still, be here, be safe, unchallenged and whole. I handle it by making lists and over preparing, over thinking. I want him and the house to be looked after – for everything to remain in place as if I were still here. And yet, I won’t be. And it won’t be the same. Why should it? I will be elsewhere, having a different experience. And it will be good. Once I’ve loosed the strings of my attachment to here and to him, it will be good. The adventure will be a marvellous one. And I will raise myself up to meet it, greet it and embrace it. It is just the unknown, like writing this review today. Will it come? Will I find the words?

Of course. It always comes. Always.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.