It was a dream, again. Do they wake me before the alarm, always a split second? Or is it my body clock as she called it so many years ago sparking me awake? It was a funeral, her funeral, my grandmother’s. Though it wasn’t of course, she died long ago and I was young when I attended the real one. This one was more contemporary. We were in the car following a line, a cortege of sorts of mainly black vehicles. There was a man and then a woman on the periphery, both crying. They weren’t allowed in, they were kept in the wings, ousted, but nevertheless, they’d come. He was hirsute in the face at least and she looked familiar, and wore green. He touched his hand through the car window and I hugged her. We were going in but felt sympathy and compassion for those left outside and not welcome. The sun shone. It wasn’t a sombre day. Not sure where it came from or what it means.

I continue to read about her, getting frustrated with myself when I finish breakfast later than intended. Did she really feel so little about leaving her child with another? The language of the day perhaps pretends an indifference that she didn’t experience. Is the discomfort hers or mine? Last pot of tea today for a bit. A retraction is due, anything to ease the gut and to save the infernal chopping of fruit. The big things reign on out there and I am, as usual, concerned with the trivial, the small. Work must be done for the photography is booked for tomorrow. Another venturing out. A little scary still. And another commission for an article has been secured. I’m looking forward to it. So far. Keep that up. There is joy even in the always daunting challenge of writing. A bientot (sans little triangle, I don’t know how to get it).

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.