Many things remain the same, that’s confusing. Sky, trees and two kestrels circling, touching wingtips. What’s different? The pain. My cracked soul. Not knowing where to find anything. Broken china on the path. A bonfire of mattresses, chairs and precious things (her woodworking projects). I packed a box and taped it. She said, I can’t bear you being here, please go away. She was sitting in bed now. This is a mess, she said, and you’ve created it. Because I’d insisted, then changed my mind. Too late. She said, I can’t afford to be at your mercy. What gives you the right?

I can hear the soft achey roar of a plane moving through clouds. Back in London, in my mother’s house. When she goes into a home, quite soon, I’ll have to leave. And go where? To a rented place. So now I think, these are my thoughts, the right house will save you, the wrong house will ruin you. My tarot cards – justice and judgement in the near future. (The occupational assessors? My own conscience?) The harsh queen holds a sword. Little mummies sit up in their coffins, wave their bandaged arms. They want to be picked up and comforted. This is all about mothers. Hers dead, mine living. Mine cries, “There’s no hope for us, Mum.” She says “I tried to be a reasonable mother.” Fruitful female and male victory, both reversed. So now, I go looking for tall buildings, fire escapes, access to the roof or high windows. Now the amniotic fluid is drained. I miss my old lazy, happy life. Don’t be hard on yourself, she said, the world will be hard enough.