Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Slinking in the shallows of the far riverbank, this trespasser looks up under secret tree roots, sees there: white as porcelain, wide as dinner plates: flat fungus growing in neat stacks. Over the water, a vortex of midges. In the water, light gleams greenish clear or blurred in mud. Rocks, deviously slippery as we cross on foot, soothe to softness when we tread deeper to swim. Tiny fish hide: amazed, afraid fish. This river world is no safer than any other world. The water pours, it pulls and spools. In the soul of the swimmer, a sense of stillness settles. We laugh, walking home in wet shoes.

Yesterday: There was website development, there was the housework backlog: there was the sun: so shiny it was causing a distraction before anyone came to make me give in to it. Me and Little Granddaughter walked in the garden. Fat Beagle houseguest is bossed to join us, obliging even though she mispronounces his name. Owlfide sensibly rolls his fat back into the shade when the Nextdoor Chickens catch her eye. Heat makes her weary, eventually, so we lie on the sun lounger. She pokes a freckle on my arm. 'Hurt?' 'No, it's a freckle.' 'Feckle.' 'Yep.' 'Oh. Okay.' She nods, rests her head on my shoulder. I should be thinking about work but I'm thinking about holidays. Washing waves on the rotary line, makes noises of sails and flags. We lie on the sun chair, squint, let the blaze and company dictate. Today: All the little jobs stick together, jam up the day. All day I have one eye on the stupid clock. ...

The river is lower than I've ever seen it. A stretch of unexplored stone and tree root lands in my lap like free tickets. I'm gone before I've realized I'm going to go. I see tadpoles and shout about it. I see the river fall deep from the mud and stone shore. There's a world down there. I'm almost struck to stone by it, till the breeze and the shake of a wet dog break that spell. Sun light falls on a length of old chain. It takes my historical fancy. I pull myself up the bank of nettles under the barbed wire, declaring: 'a piece of the chain bridge,' before admitting: 'in my mind, at least.' It does have that look about it. Mr admires it and we leave it in situ, for it belongs there and some things need leaving be. There are more tadpoles in the stream. 'The ones in the river must have washed down,' Mr observes. 'They're thriving,' I decide. There's not a nettle sting on me. Under the trees we walk, and...

I would have liked to tell my stepdaughter how beautiful she looked, in her wedding gown, no surface gloss beauty: the real glow. I think she knew, anyway: Little Grandson had run to the unfenced edge of the high church wall to wave at Mum in the wedding charabanc. And his shirt was untucked, so there were two Granma jobs to keep my mind from crying. People do cry at weddings, I know, but I might not be able to stop. This confident, quirky boy stands on a grave and smiles. Life prevails. Celebration prevails. Love is worth the risk of loss. Bunting aplenty at the marquee: handmade, yards and yards of candy prints, hours and hours of fine work. Cupcakes, homemade, iced and glittered, place names, all hand written. It all comes down to love. The groom stole the speech show. He floored us all: no showboating: only how he misses his father, how he loves his wife. He proposed to her in a gondola: he's that sort of chap. Every napkin holds a mascara blot. Little Gra...

The shop's proprietor is amused and bemused. He has to confirm the request out loud. 'An inappropriate card for a funeral?' 'Yes. Not too inappropriate. Just not gloomy. Preferably a bit rude.' The Grim Reaper is passed over, in spite of being a cartoon. 'This one.' This one has a pastel pink background, minor profanity, a wryness and pathos to it. Mr is looking at cards for a new baby, cards for a wedding. It doesn't seem real, to buy a card for a death. I don't want something that's an expected formality. I want some thing to celebrate the odd bond between oddly glorious people. Ian 'Special' Rice escaped from the restrictions of disease, but he never escaped from life. Life he met head on, wailing in like a rookie fighter, like some kind of crazy clown. He learnt from each bout though, more than he let on. We always spoke to each other without restriction. I'm still learning from him. I'm pleased with th...

A practical turn to my wedding outfit: I must find a cover up for the bruise on my arm. Off shopping then. Quickly. Time is of the essence, as they say.  On the slip road to the A30 a hearse is pulled up, hazard lights flashing. The coffin is draped in a cloth, bright clear red, under a circled wreath. How this contusion arrived, I don't recall, no matter how I frown. I drive: give up. There is a bruise: that is all that can be dredged. A white crop cardigan suffices, matches the white flip-flops, the pearly Alice band, the damaged beaded bag that I bargained for. It's a good bruise. Puzzles me, how I missed the cause of it. It's the shape of a heart. So, here I am, pulling odd faces in concentration, trying to take a picture of my heart-bruise. Either mystery or symbology makes it a perfect subject. 

This weather does not echo mood. It draws it out. Cloud clusters bring indecision: clouds in the mind. Unexpected sun coincides with proximity to beach: Dog and her shadow and her reflection hurtle over wet flats of sand: I am caught in trousers that don't roll up, so my hems are drenched. Contentment reigns, curves in the blue like Dog's old tennis ball. Later, the rain is so heavy it could flatten my car. The weight of it squeezes out tears. At home, comforting: the sound of the same rain on the lean-to roof.