There are roses on his windscreen. A bunch of different coloured roses. How many years is it now since his death? Is it one, or two or maybe even three? I cannot remember, time goes by so fast. They have been placed on his work’s van, long stemmed roses in pinks and yellows. They won’t be left until they fade and crumble. She is always so cheerful, or at least she seems so. A pretty woman, full of energy, and so tiny. So brave. Is it three children she has? All on her own. Many people have to. I feel for her. Such a public losing. He was so loved, so liked. He has told me of his father many times. A big man, he’d say, used to dress up in women’s clothes. Good for him, I say. A big family of boys. All rugby players, as indeed was he.

I trawl through my writing, reading each one. It is an embracing experience. I am enriched by it. Thank you.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.