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Wobbly

There is no certainty. Life is in constant flux but we/I kid myself that it is not. The plates beneath our feet are perpetually shifting, so surprises should not unsettle us but they do. I could look at it another way. I know more now than I did at this time yesterday. So be it. I shall do my best for him, be practical, steady, solid.

There are still nice things. What were they this morning? The blow-up Santa that was tied to a railing outside one of the terraced houses I walk past on the way to the harbour was one. I can’t think of anymore at the moment. It will do. Just that. Oh, there was something else. A parcel in a script I didn’t recognise. A warm gesture. I felt loved and remembered and part of something good. Thank you, sweet girl. I remember holding your head in my hands when you were still a schoolgirl. Tender. Bless you.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.