The Clock Struck Long Term

It sounded like a title for a novel or a poem. It came into my head in that time between sleep and waking. The alarm had sounded, and I’d just switched it off and then fell back into an almost sleep. The phrase came then. They make no sense those pre-waking sentences. I get them alot. Mostly they are forgotten, lost a grip of.

A blustery, blowy day. The wind seemed to be coming from all sides as I walked through the town. Things clattered and battered and seagulls were jettisoned across the sky, their whiteness soaring. Ah, now the sun makes an appearance, lovely. It is needed.

I’m tired today. A gentle day researching the babushkas, it is enough. I think about writing to her. I find it hard to let go. Is it still a friendship? We know so little of each other’s lives these days. It was such a long time ago, wasn’t it? I feel a debt to her. But I sense her interest has waned. And it hurt that time when I was due to visit and she’d either forgotten or needed, or preferred to let out the room. Shall I let it fall away? Will you guide me? I dreamt of EG last night. The biography still engrosses me, though the amount of people mentioned in it does make it a slow job. She writes in her diary of her temper and impatience. Ah, me. And then of the diary she began to trace the early life of her daughter. I felt a pang and go to her FB page just to look. They are all there. My loves. My little ones. I claim you from a distance. With love. Always.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.