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Nothing (to say)

I forgot about you. And it isn’t true that I’ve nothing to say, there is always something but because I’d forgotten I’m ready to work now. So I’ll be brief.

There was no one about as I walked this morning, my hips and legs aching and not moving fluidly. Do you get that some mornings? I felt like an old dog. I accuse him of being one too when he gets up from his chair. Bless him. Where’s the tea towel? he demanded this morning as we washed up after breakfast. On your shoulder, I replied. It was nice to laugh like that, together. It’s not going to get any better, he said. No. And who cares.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.