We are apart, and yet when your voice sounds on the telephone, we are not. In those opening seconds a play of inflections and intonations remind each other of this bond between us. As our words fan out across the mostly inconsequential things of a day past or, if it is early morning, a day to come, that binding loosens and we divest ourselves: to feel comfortable. It is so often difficult, but last night, as I stood between the reed beds beneath Constable’s great skies and you sat with our son on his birthday, there was a kind graciousness between us – and I hold it to me now. After our goodbyes I stopped and thought of this birthdate, of this boy of ours, then years past. I see a photo. The candled cake lit and he is leaning over the table about to blow to secure his wish. There I am, my face wind-burnished from a fortnight of walking the cliffs, daily throwing my ideas from the heights to soar like gliders, and returning safely to be launched and soar again, and higher or for longer. Just now I am holding the past dear, and my days are threaded through with memories of the onset of autumn. I dream of an autumn time free from the beginnings of things that one day we might share together; to go out to pick blackberries and return to our small home, and as we drink tea, watch the late afternoon light flicker and flow through the trees to pattern the carpet at our feet.