Water (551)

I’m heavy with it this morning. My legs are rigid, unmoving. I push through as I pushed through the wind and rain on my early walk. We fight over it, he and I, in the car outside work. He wants me to go back and try something else. I want to wait, to take stock, to get clean inside. I’m tired, weary and this hard rain against the window doesn’t help. There is little light. More like a grey November day than a September one. It will clear. I will heal. The sun will come out. Meanwhile I get those scrappy things out of the way, all my endless notes to self.

She answered this morning. We talked about the cat not missing the kittens that have gone. Do they really do it as easily as that? She still scratches her. I keep going back for more, she says, laughing. A feral cat, clearly who prefers to sleep in the shed for all her coaxing of her into the porch. Such a pretty cat, she says.

We are going. We’ve booked, though the prospect of the journey makes me weary today. But it’s fine. It will be so wonderful to see her, to see them, and to be on the move, carried. And to sleep. And to see her. Let me heal. Let me find my energy, my lithe-someness soon.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.