Plastic Bag

They promised 50 mile per hour winds. They didn’t feel that strong, possibly 20 or 25. I walked anyway, though the Prom was only really safe towards the Bar. As I made my way along Llanbadarn Road one of those transparent, plastic recycling bags inflated on the other pavement. It had clearly been tied up, loosely, and the wind had got inside blowing it up into a large, tight ball. First it lifted into the air and then fell down with a bounce onto the pavement before bobbing along at the same pace as me towards town. I thought of the young lad in American Beauty making a video of a plastic bag dancing in a breeze and then of the orange space hopper things we had a kids (well, we didn’t have one but friends did). There was something miraculous about it, beautiful in its way. It captivated me.

Weary again today, no doubt a result of the wind and the pattern of fitful sleeping I’ve got myself into. A gentle day today in which I will continue with his quilt (a cumbersome job pushing it through the machine) and baking some bread (the yeast I froze may have died but I’ll see). Keep well and safe.

I found this card written while they were on honeymoon I think. It contains his usual practical concerns, all about meeting them off the train in the Mini. He never did write of love. But he seemed happy enough. Were they? Ever? I cannot remember. I hope so. Did her death speed along his? Fanciful perhaps. Who knows and who cares, it is long ago now. Long ago.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.