We expect ease. Or perhaps I should say we aim for ease. And are narked when it doesn’t come. The car is fucked once again. This is the third time in a month. What is that about? I try to keep sanguine. It doesn’t help to rant and rave. It isn’t personal after all, is it? But as a result we may not be able to go. He doesn’t like trains, there is no point me even mentioning it. He took one once to see in me in Cornwall when he’d damaged his shoulder and couldn’t drive. I should’ve been more flattered. It was a big gesture on his part. Not now. Not now. So we will have to postpone. Do I mind? No, not really. I was looking forward to it. So was he. He said so in the car yesterday. But we’ve done so much driving in the last few days. Miles and miles. And to be still would be nice. At least for a while. I have much writing to do and I want to clean, to sort, to order, to sleep and be steady for a short while. If I can. So I will be sanguine. Am sanguine.

The rain has come as promised. I will have to walk this morning. It’s OK. So long as I can find my way, it is fine.

She’s changed her tune. That was always one of my mothers’. You’ve changed your tune, she’d say. She offered to do it, was happy to do it but now says she hasn’t the time. I feel about it as I feel about the car, detached, far away. What can I do? What can I do right now? Nothing. It is far away and so heavy with emotional baggage. It was a gift but a hoary one. What will transpire? Can we trust? In her and in providence that it will sell? Oh, to be free of it all. To be at ease.

Is it meant to easy, this living thing? I cannot say. I am tired. I am weary with not enough sleep. Though yesterday was nice. Another four hours in the car. They know me now. They know my name. And the show was a revelation.

The air down by the harbour this morning smelt of the farmyard. I smelt cows and wet, damp hay. Is it the odour of crop spray being carried in the sea mist? It stayed dry and the wind had gone. A nice walk. My back tightened a little but not as much as usual. It is working. I noticed the difference in you after three weeks, he said yesterday. Yes, I do feel different. It will always challenge us, this living thing. I suspect it is meant to. We learn from it, that rubbing up, that eroding, that jarring. More than we do with the ease. I am grateful for the small things and the regular rhythm of my moving, my walking, my stretching, my stilling.

It is OK. She is there, that precious body of sweetness and he. My love, my calm, my sagacious soul. And, I forgot to say, she replied again. I dreamt of her yesterday. She wrote of her mother’s sewing box. A treasured family heirloom, fought over by all siblings. I am touched by such a connection. I think of her up there in her small, perfect house. She is a part of me, as is she, and she and he. Always.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.