Other people’s stories. They are not mine and yet they resonate. An uncle painting a mural on a childhood wall. Then the layers of wallpaper, floral upon stripe. Another’s father who made dioramas. An Edwardian. A polymath who stopped eating.
On Mothering Sunday we took her flowers. A circular arrangement, stiff in oasis. It was too fancy, too particular. I wanted to take a posy of freshness, of spring. We talked of getting a glass, a thin vial, a test tube vase and pushing it into her earth. Then we shall bring cornflowers, lily of the valley, daisies – even buttercups. She’d like that I think. Soon we shall take her to the Gower and set her free over those bays. A painted lady followed us as we walked.
I am still so grey, so fearful. I don’t know why. It is an ugliness, a stopping of joy. Let it return, this joy, that joy. Let it return. Soon.