I’ve called her every Friday as usual for weeks now and there has been no answer, just that automated answering machine voice telling me to leave a message. Is she still there? Has she gone home, or has she gone forever? I think about whether I could’ve done more. I am loathe to call her daughter, I almost don’t want to hear the reality of her situation. She has been fading, in mind if not in body, for a long time now. It has been too much. A delicate being. I miss her. I think of all the women I reach out to, as much for them as for myself. Do I fall short?
I am nervous about writing today, but then I always am. Be brave. I must be brave.
A yacht was taxing out of the harbour as I walked by this morning. Oh, the freedom of it, that sailing out into a great expanse of calm blue. How I longed to be there, on board with them. Little things still please. Like the cat sitting in the window in the house at the top of the Buarth, or the car that passed me on Llanbadarn Road towing a small wooden fishing boat behind it.
We were scratchy yesterday. Let us be kinder today.
