I thought it would be a good idea. He’d got all het up about the impending rain last night, so I thought I’d go prepared. His coat, my waterproofs underneath and wellies. If it the rain is unrelenting it can get in my walking boots, through the eyelets, I think. So wearing wellies seemed sensible. I’d forgotten how uncomfortable they are to walk in. I remembered once I’d set off. Stay in, he’d said. Give it a rest for once. It won’t hurt. No, I heard myself replying, I need to walk. And I do. I need the fresh air. I need to move. I felt every step. The boots crushed my toes. It’ll be alright, my loves I said to them, not long now. I tried to place my weight in other places but ended up almost leaning. It was excruciating. What a twit, I said to myself, what an idiot. But see it through. Learn from this mistake. And at least your feet, hurting though they are, are dry. And then I saw him. At least, I think it was a him. In the shelter, on the Prom, a body, hunched in sleep, lying on a folded-up cardboard box. A form in a sleeping bag. It put it all in perspective, me and my wellies. I wished him well. Imagined wrapping him in a duvet and made a mental note to think of him tonight when I went to bed. Do thoughts make any difference? Who knows. Sometimes it is all we can do.

I finally galumphed my way home and what a joy to take them off. That is joy, taking footwear off that is pinching.

I’ve started it. I’ve started to make her dress. It is for her but it is really for her. I’m made nervous about it. I’m in the dark, its been such a long time since I made something with a machine. Will I remember how to fill the spool? Little steps. I have time. I have time to make mistakes, to falter. It is a gift. It is the gesture not the thing. I have given you this time. This thing represents how I feel. Trying to make it real, to connect myself to it, the her, to them. My love.

A pink dress. A pink gingham, summer dress. From me to her. Let it go well.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.