“We were very torn” she said

“My grandmother wanted it to be an art studio”.

I wanted to say something

Like

“Mae’r pentre ‘ma yn mynd i farw. Peida, plis.”

But she has a baby

I don’t want to be violent.

Choked

I waited.

“But now I have a daughter”

I knew, really.

“What if she wants to come here, when she’s older?”

It’s possible, I suppose.

“Like we did. We used to love it”.

Ers talwm. I thought. Ti’n byw yn Kent. Dw i erioed wedi dy weld di yma.

 

There was more to say.

But I had already said it. In her tongue.

In mine, I could say it better.

“Mae hen ysgubor, yn annwyl i mi

Mi faswn i’n wneud unrhyw beth i’ch gadw chi.”

But I don’t.

Nor others, the planners, the community council.

 

We all have something we want from them.

I’m grateful.

They are very kind. Very generous.

I don’t want to cause trouble.

I try to understand.

I see their holiday things in the barn

The windbreak, boules, body board, raffia beach mat.

The ‘Bob + Chrissie’ scratched into the body board.

The barn, their daughter’s inheritance.

 

History presses against us, swallows us whole. Overtakes us.

 

The birds will be singing at our last super.

Maybe the cuckoo will be back.

Beginning again. The spring.

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