Love without measure. One year later. Verão '24

     

    

     

 

 

 

Quinta da Cultura finds home

     

    

   

     

 

 

    

    

     

     

     

     

    

 

   

 

Ceramic workshop with Studio Elsa Ceramics!

    

    

 

   

     

    

    

    

    

      

 

    

    

    

     

    

    

    

 

     

     

     

31/08/24

How to spend the one year anniversary of the death of a ready-to-be-born son? The one year anniversary of the day that his presence in my abdomen meant that my life was saved? The tragedy, the miracle. Nobody writes scripts for this shit. Our minds incoherent, our bodies took our souls by the hand and dragged us to nature: A high point, a limestone ridge of nature-reserve, mossy chestnut-tree forest in the mist.
We scrambled around the rocky paths, naming wildflowers, following trails of ants carrying seeds and discarding husks, we picked and ate hand-fulls of early blackberries. We tried to exist only in that moment, time within time, held in the mist, nothing behind us, nothing in front. Feather from a tawny owl. Stones rolling beneath our feet. Footsteps, nothing, everything.

At the peak, a cafe and lots of bikers, the smell of leather jackets, motorbike helmets taking up space on tables. At the front of the queue, the lady behind the counter with her pen poised, our faces blank, to her, to the menu, she smiled patiently. Frida shouted, 'Strawberry milkshake!'

And then the sun burned through the mist and we looked down at the road where it happened, in the distance. Long arms and pointed fingers and cheeks pressed together, one eye closed, to show Frida. Between the big, square, white building and the tower. Do you see?

She said, ‘Yes! The truck pushed your car into another car coming the other way and then Meirion pushed the car away and so mummy didn’t die!’

     

     

    

    

    

Who Knows Where the Time Goes, our incredible Nicky.