They’ve gone into a home. We clear their house over several slow weeks, of their things and their habits preserved. Tea pot with cosy, thimble collection on wooden mini-shelves, faint

Not my sanctuary, it doesn’t mean comfort which protects and shields. Not a barrier to harm, this house isn’t shelter from what skirts me. We think home is a building,

I lie there, eyes smarting and fists clenched tight. I’m staring at the ceiling, everything now knotted and on high alert. She comes in and tells me that now? That’s

Each evening we observe her. Fine, silvery strands spun across the window corner – outside, of course. I’ve to shut the curtains, as A. won’t get that near. I’m giving

The bed is no bed as I know it, it is hard as wood. The room is worn and old, with dirty cream walls, weird blue paintwork and ceiling, one

Tap, tap goes the ball on his foot, regular and even. Right, right, left, left, flick, tap. Snug in the crook between foot and shin. Just a little longer until