. . . the photographs over the old blanket that I have spread my bed with, that a deliberate act but belonging to another story; I remember when my mother bought those blankets, two of them now spread upon my bed under which I sleep at night thinking memories may permeate them and into my dreams.

Smiler’s photographs (I called her that; she had a lovely smile and smiled a lot, this old woman whose age I now approach – not there yet – practically immobile, she was, and I dash this, a mode I keep on falling into).

Histories mixed upon that blanket.

My mother was so pleased with them, two alike.

She had inherited old grey and brown and beige – I’ve said this before – from her mother who –

These, with pink as a frame top and bottom to their grey.

So new those pink stripes made the blankets look.

So woolly and warm and soft, not scratchy at all.  I sometimes sleep directly under the blanket itself and not the sheet first.  Somehow, the blanket itself, just one of them, gives me the correct amount of warmth over my burning-hot body, enough to keep the cool of the room from me but let my own body-heat through.

This osmosis – my favourite word – this osmosis . . .

But a mixture of personal stories there as weft and warp, my own joining too.

My mother – and letters of condolence at Smiler’s brother’s death . . .

This – an imperfection that attempts to say something.

I’ve been absent. And that has been a relief.

There are times when you just need to recognise that, despite your anxiety about death being just around the corner, and things not done – there is more to this than I say here – just let it flow – there is the back of beyond – there is the olden days – time gone past – there is a rushing which I avoid.

Sometimes, just jot – like now – don’t plan out what you are going to say – take heed of your thought that you haven’t posted for a long time – maybe you should – keep in the loop, I once said of that – and maybe it’s important, or I wouldn’t have paid my dues again this year.

Don’t think too much.

Trust your own forward-motion.

Heidegger – had a thing about being in your past, your present and your future all at the same time – and I liked that – so what is this ‘forward-motion’ I’m talking about?

It has been quiet in this neck of the woods.

I have spent some time sorting out old photographs that have come from my husband’s side of the family.

There are so many of them.  This is not the first time I have gone through them but, in one of the boxes, there was a note I had left for myself that I had only so far gone through ‘this lot’.

Dozens of tiny snaps stuffed into envelopes.

More that one set of sets – that had been developed and sent to other family members – and came back again to us (me) as they died off.

I am a repository.

I am not delighted with this task, these images – I suspect I am talking of something else now – I am – some deep memories have started to surface during this – I’ll be here forever, it seems, with these.

But there is no other way through it.

I am resentful.

Let’s get real.

I hardly want to say this – I want some sustainability.

Not fly-by-nights.

Not stereotypes.

Not differences, one year to the next, or one season to the next, or one – I keep on forgetting the words, but ‘era’ might do here – one era to the next.

I’m old enough to remember the truths of – years ago now.

How they change.  The magazines exhort the latest things – what to reach for; what is currently desirable; let’s change our minds about a few things and call it progress.

A dead-end here; a dead loss.

A misunderstanding so acute as to cut.