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  • Writer's pictureEE Montgomery

Bowerbirds were her favourite

My mind is stuck on a loop. All I can think is that there wasn't enough time.

Time to pour another cup of tea for Nanny.

Time to sit in my favourite chair with the William Morris sunflower tapestry seat and talk about the herbs growing in the garden.

Time to tell Nanny how I've changed and am still changing.

The ground beneath my feet feels like clay. or sand. or thick, sticky mud. I struggle to take a step. Any step. I can't breathe. I know I'm breathing because I'm still here, in a world of confusion and grief, but my throat hurts. My eyes hurt. My heart hurts.

I didn't expect her to die. I stare at my vintage caravan nestled amongst the trees at the bottom of the garden and try to find something, anything that will hold me together.

Behind me, in the house, people are talking.

They're not people I know: they're my sisters.

Everything is too much. I'm feeling too much. Holding in too much. I can't... I can't...

"I've got you." It's Morgan. I'm safe with Morgan. I let myself go with her.

Read my story, The Satin Bowerbird, in Tangled up in Blue.

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