Morning Tea

This is a quick note. A quick hello before I have to dash off. Morning tea. We are to take tea with a friend. A friend of my father’s who has become, since he has died, ours. She is a treasure. A sweet one. Tender. Tears are always at the back of her eyes. She is visiting her sister’s house, clearing it out. A painful process. And we are travelling to see her. A while away. It’s OK. It will be worth it for all that he struggles with such obligations. She is so gentle, a quiet presence who calms me.

The interview went well, I think. She was warm and responsive. Now all I have to do is form it into something marvellous. Will you help?

I can see blue sky. The promised dryness didn’t materialise. It poured. I walked with my bleakness in my pocket and endured. The smell of bread helped. And the sight of the sea, ever constant. I think of him each morning. Taken, thrown against rocks. Had he gone into that water willingly? They hadn’t reported him missing for over 24 hours. Hadn’t he been missed? Did they live such separate lives? Is this bleakness ubiquitous? Carry it with me. Know it with me and lighten it, if you can?

Tomorrow I write. With love.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.