In a chair at the table, by the hum of the washing machine, I pick up a pencil and start to draw.
Movements of the wrist turn to lines, turn to the shape of your face and the mapping of your body.
And what began as lead and paper, turns to the heat of Spain, and the sun on my face fading everything to a soft lilac and grey.

I can just make out the sound of you moving across the grass, the slow shuffle and kick of your feet.
The fold and the sway of a body in motion.
A year of treading carpets, stepping over stiles and tripping over trousers.
I think about those feet that brought you to me, and carried you away at the end.
I think of stillness, and how it never lasts.

As the washing cycle spins and thuds to a stop, I am jolted back into the present.
Dropping the pencil to the floor, I look at the paper in front of me….