Forgetting (5)

Sometimes when I forget it comes. It’s a letting go of sorts. And now, there, she has responded. It doesn’t set my life on fire what she says but it is something, she has thought of me. A little. I am wound up today, it started on waking. My back is a taut band. I try to walk it out but thoughts keep assailing me bringing forward fears of future things that I cannot, as yet, resolve. At least I know it. I know it well. And I need to get on with work. I have much to do. I like that but the fear of failure is, at times, intense. He is kind, he tries to let me down gently. He’s forgetting too. Words mostly. We laugh more about it now, then we did. All becomes easier, in the end. We’ve opted for a no frills one, a cremation and that’s it. I prefer it. All that fuss when all you want to do is crawl away and hide. Family may be disappointed but heigh ho. It’s our deaths, eh?

No rain when I walked and no one was about. I began the application. I tried to be open, honest, genuine. I want it. But know that I need to do it and then forget it. Let it go, like a breath. Do you best then exhale. Simple.

My return to coffee is a real pleasure once more. The little pot works like a dream. Just one. Just one cup. Rich and dark. The kitchen exudes with the aroma of it. Lovely. Can I thank you for that? And our full fridge. I am blessed.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.