Talked to Me

There’s no doubt it stirs things up, it is inevitable, but it is the wrong time of the day for me. I go to bed whirring with it all. And last night the story was so close, too close. Though I didn’t put her in a dustbin. They were so kind to her. Was that realistic? Wouldn’t the police at least have been a little more suspicious? Who knows? It is fiction after all. And all was well in the end, as it mostly is. Is it with me? And with her? I love her. I always have, though I haven’t always known her. I have loved the existence of her, the being of her in this world, breathing this selfsame air. Does she know this? That is all that remains important, her knowing that she is loved, held. I cannot do more. I cannot erase the past. No one asked me, that is what hurt. He sat on the edge of my bath. I would’ve, he said. I would’ve said, is this what you want? Perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to say in truth what I wanted, but at least he would’ve asked, would’ve cared to question me. She took care of it all. He thinks unkindly, I don’t. I owe her much. She gave her a family. Though even now I think she struggles to belong. Bless her. My love, what have I brought you? I hope some joy. Life, if not else. Is that enough?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.