Wind (594)

The wind was still strong when I walked this morning. I was buffeted this way and that. Boats rigging jangled and rattled down by the harbour and the waves roared their approach. I didn’t chance it on the Perygyl, too wet and too exposed. I wanted to feel safe, and out of the gust so I walked through town, protected by houses and high walls. We did go out yesterday afternoon once Storm Hannah had eased. I walked the length of the Prom and met him at the harbour. Again the wind was a force, sometimes it was as if I wasn’t moving at all. But I needed it. I need to move, I need to stride, else my body, my heart, my circulation just grinds to a halt, my legs go thick with liquid and my breathing is slowed. The colours of the town look different in the day light, sharper and more vibrant. And I noticed that the college students who did the mural under the castle have extended their reach to an area beneath the monument.

I think about her often. She is an enigma to me. I remember when I cried, she clearly didn’t know what to do and just continued giving directions, keeping it practical, immediate. Does she cry? I can’t remember the last time, I…..yes, yes I can. It was that occasion that cemented something for me. She’d revealed her vulnerability. He had meant so much to her. Symbolically, I think. I feel better about her when I am with her, it was the same with her. Just to keep them in my sight. I know what I am dealing with then. She doesn’t reply to my messages like she used to, she is busy and wrapped up in the negotiations of her life. Is there empathy between us? I don’t know. I feel like I have to prostrate myself before her and ask forgiveness for every past demeanour before we can be at peace. She has a sharp kind of beauty, like her. Hard at times. Hard-edged at least. There is no falling into her, cushion-like. Perhaps men feel differently. I want her to be happy. For her sake and mine. We are so unalike. We didn’t chose each other. We are found together in this life. We must make the best of it. She doesn’t see what I feel, what I do. Though it is not altruism, merely survival. It was the same with her, though more difficult.

Drawers are neater now. And the semblance of order, for it is but a semblance, does quieten me. Now I will sew, listen to The Archers and dream.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.