Moon and Blackcurrants

The cleaning is done, though I wish I could learn to approach it with more joy. I love a clean house. I love the smell of it and the order. You don’t look very happy about doing it, he said this morning. No, I suppose I don’t. There is so much I’d rather be doing. But that is neither here nor there, is it? Keeping order for both of us is important, just as important as more high-falutin’ earning money sort of work. So let it be and instead be grateful that you have a home to clean, many don’t. Like the man I see sleeping rough in the shelter on the Prom. Was it the same man? His sleeping bag was red today. How can he sleep with the howling of the wind surrounding him? He is sheltered from the cold of it but not the sound. Do you become immune to it? The sound makes my very bones feel cold.

I rushed my walk this morning so that I could get back to mop the floors downstairs. Our neighbour was at his window when I went out. At least it’s not raining yet, he said. No, I said. He was smoking, coughing and reading a book at the same time. It looked liked a sci fi or fantasy novel. It was a paperback with a plastic cover, a library book perhaps? I tried to read it’s title. He interests me, a singular man, I think but seemingly most content. I think it was something like ‘Monstrous Revolutions’. I should’ve asked him but didn’t like to.

The moon took me by surprise this morning. I turned the corner onto the Prom, trying to avoid being toppled by the wind, and there it was big and almost full, shining a white-yellow in the sky. There were clouds that scudded in front of it but when they didn’t I could make out a star nearby to it, or a satellite maybe.

I’m glad I went.

She emailed me to say that she’s sent me some blackcurrants. What a treat. And she is so busy and yet she found the time. Well, her husband posted them while she had her hair cut. She says that the PO removed the string she’d tied around them so they may not arrive in one piece. I hold my breath longing for the smell of them, the taste of them. Will they come?

How nice it would be to sit with her, with them, in their garden.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.