My mother

When I face a door that won't open, I think of you. I see myself in younger shoes, looking at you, childishly embarrased at your unwillingness to accept that the door is closed, looking for another way in. Shouting through the door to anyone on the other side - it makes me cringe because I feel lame, calling through a door that clearly will not open. As if it were me calling. And then the door opens. And someone friendly is smiling and welcoming us in and showing us the way.

So now I too, stand at closed doors and shout, rather than turn away. But not before I've thought of you.

Sound on the air

As ever, music comforts and embraces my life like a soundtrack. A thundercloud of change looms overhead, and I smell the dark air apprehensively. Half thankfully. My drum is not broken - it is overflowing with a deep bass noise. Static. Like a resting pause on the bars. The next beat will come on time, and the overture will turn like a river into me.