The problem is we are islands. The silence is hostile. Even the smoke signals get lost. It takes someone else to suggest a bridge. One that might meet in the middle. Ask him to join you on the bridge, she suggests. Look at each other, she reminds us. My island has a stormy coastline. His, impenetrable cliffs. Join me on the bridge, I ask him. Okay, but what do we have to build it with? How far will each of us come? Building isn’t your strong point. Join me on the bridge, he

I know he will fear the terrible creatures, their teeth and claws. He is building the little boat that will take him there, and there is no room for me. He’ll launch it without fearful memories, confident he has the tricks to tame them. I cannot tell him not all monsters have yellow eyes. I cannot tell him that boats might can sink and people drown, and never come home from that place. I cannot tell him I will always be there, or that I can make them go away. But I have help

She asks me which branch of the Rural I belong to. I’m just the singer, I say. We share stories. Her husband died nineteen years ago. She was born in 1934, married at twenty, joined the WI to make friends, the farm was lonely. Four children, ten grandchildren, five great-grandchildren. She likes to play Patience on her computer (not one of those hand-held ones, she says), while watching Murder She Wrote. I wasn’t married when I had my son, I admit, I’m not a church-goer. I g

The first time I heard it I recoiled. I thought it meant distance, but it doesn’t. It means just because I have hurts, I can still listen to you. I want to listen to you. I am glad of something new to think about. And I don’t want my peaks and troughs to make me an ineffectual friend, a taker and not a giver. I want to be there for you. I want the scales to balance. Your problems are not mine, and I cannot take the hurts away from you. But let me care, like you do. #Friendshi

Got up at six thirty. Fed and dressed the kids and myself. Full face of makeup. Drove little boy to school. Housework. Drafted application for a writing competition. More housework. Picked up little boy from school and dropped baby girl at nursery. Rehearsed for a concert on Wednesday night. Drank coffee with my sister. Watched The Handmaid’s Tale recorded from Sunday, on the sofa, with my husband. Finished writing application, made dinner. More housework. Three loads of wash

My baby is one year old. She does not want to crawl or walk yet. She does not like to cry or fuss about anything. What she likes to do is smile, wave regally, and blow raspberries. She wants to splash in the bath, and sing like a fighting cat in the quietest places. She likes to stretch up her hands for a cuddle. She makes a rainbow mess with food. She turns the upside-down pages of books and chews on them. I know she will take their arbitrary milestones, rearrange them and b

Ariana Grande will pay for the funerals of the twenty-two bombing victims. A millionaire will house the homeless man who pulled nails from children’s faces after the attack. So many people turned up to give blood in Manchester that they had to be turned away. The taxi drivers switched off their meters, the hotels became shelters. Feeling helpless, I filled two bags of clothes and toys, we have too many. If we have too much, and most of us do, then we should give some away. Bl

Today I read in the news that twenty-two people, including children, were killed in a terrorist attack at a pop concert in Manchester. Hope is more important than ever. There is a General Election in a months’ time. Hope is more important than ever. Fear, ignorance, hatred, apathy, four faces carved in a cliff. Hope is more important than ever. Every day is a struggle. Some days I want to give up. Hope is community. It’s the ties we can’t see, but that form our safety net. Li