The air smelt different

The air smelt different this morning. Was it the storm? It raged most of the night. I didn’t want to go out into it. That great howling and the lashing of rain. But I did. Though not for long. I thought I’d be alone out there. Not so. Some giggling girls hugging pizza boxes to their chests tripped up Pier Street in their high heels and boob tubes and three students, coats over heads, hurried into a doorway just beneath the old Library. The storm made boys shout. I heard them on my way home. It is easing now.

They got him out. After two months the body is out. What a state it must’ve been in. It doesn’t bear thinking about. What about if it were your loved one, or yours? Terrible.

I’m rushing. Too much to do. A review to write. Not sure what yet. And my Friday phone call to make. And another set of images to send. Wrong ones. Confusion. It is often the way. Why don’t you call? he always says. And he is right. But there isn’t time for the niceties.

She died last January. I didn’t know. I didn’t feel the passing. I would’ve liked to have gone to her funeral. May she rest in peace. I loved her.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.