I want to look at drawings of when I’ve been travelling, to remember that freedom from care, from responsibility. The back goes because it can’t take anymore. It needs to rest, to take time, to go slow. I didn’t walk this morning. The Brute had done her work and I felt sore and tender this morning. There is a big red bruise from her hammering on my thigh. How can she do that with her bare hands? I feel jaggedy and unsteady and yet I must be the solid one. All I can do is take care of the details. That is all. The rest swirls about. No trip next week. He is too scared. Even if he gets the go ahead to drive, he has no courage. It is right that we don’t go. But how I longed to see them. It is all slipping away.