Turned Down

They turned me down. Do I mind? No. It is the wrong time. We need to keep close, he and I, hunker down, take small steps. It would’ve been too much and I don’t have the strength. And I want to immerse myself in this research, this study, this reading, this writing. I shall finish my sewing projects. Be inward, inside and wait. I am so tired. I wrote a good application, gave all I could to it. Their comments are small-minded, petty, it’s the library thing, I think. It’s OK. It’s always nice to be offered success but failure is the real learning. I like that. I shall keep it close. It is sad to disappoint those who stood to gain financially. But other work will come for them. I am still trying to find my way after all this time. Funny isn’t it. Perhaps there is nothing to find. Perhaps I am here already.

It is a wrench to leave him, even for a week. My stomach carries the sorrow, tight in a ball. He slept all night. I am glad. He is recovering. I see it. Pink cheeks. Let it be. If it had been a yes there would’ve been so much to do with little economic reward, in fact none. So be it. Time to let all that go. Paper. Paper and pen. It is what I wished for. Let it be so.

He was standing by the taxi rank, lurking. I smiled as I passed by. He kept staring at me, unsmiling. Fucking, wow, he said. And then started to shout. I couldn’t make out his words. I just kept walking. Keep me safe, keep me safe. He was still shouting as I turned the corner into Bridge Street. Keep me safe. The wind was calmer. I walked the Prom.

My case is bursting. Let it survive the trip. I cannot travel light. So much comfort I want to take with me. So be it. Adieu.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.