The evenings lengthen and we all breathe out, the fog of winter wrapping itself away until the clocks next fall back. The light-finding books remain comfortingly close to my bed, a second copy of The Light in the Dark dispatched to a friend hibernating through her own cold spell. She has immaculately gorgeous taste and the velvet blues of its jacket will illuminate her coffee table, if nothing else.
Magnolia blossoms and lambs teeter on the Garth as I drive home, surprised by unfamiliar daylight. Curtain-drawn evenings give way to unhurried afternoons outdoors; gentle hill climbs and my Swansea hometown in her gold-and-blue Saturday best. Coed Garthmaelwg stretches out of its slumber, the simplicity of its stillness – broken by two giggling teens – the loveliest Mothers’ Day gift I could unfurl.
The postman bears good news times two; my MRI results are unchanged and Chief Teen is to go to the school awards. I get the good news when she’s away, leading younger Scouts on a six-mile, cross-country hiking challenge, so I burst a little with pride and wonder if I tell her enough, in between dropping all the balls, how amazing she is. The next day, the postman delivers a summons to further, unexpected, hospital tests and I wonder when it will end. But he doesn’t take back the letter about the school awards.
I still watch the sunsets alone, the three-dates date telling me by text that it’s not him, it’s me. I’m lovely and I tick all the boxes… but. I respond to say thank you, but perhaps that was worth a phone call, and withdraw with my loveliness. Another guy, another arranged Friday night date, and I withdraw from that also when he texts (ah, these texts) to see if we can meet later than planned. He needs a nap first; it’s been a busy week in his world. I don’t tell him of all the dropped balls in my own little world, or the past, unlovely relationship with someone quite content to let me drop them while he napped quite a lot, too. I just say perhaps some things are worth being a little bit tired for and leave it there, watching the evening light dance on daffodils.
So I’m still single, the trails book is still not getting written and the cloud of those conditions, which no longer scare the shit out of me but I’d rather do without, still shadows every step (please stop me if I’ve written this before). But, life is lovely. I go to an awards night of my own and don’t win but I laugh a lot, with old friends and new. There are, as ever, mountains – three of Wales’ finest, actually, all to be tackled on the same day in June and with a mere 120-mile stretch of the old A470 between the first and the last. Now, don’t tell anyone, but I’m genuinely wondering if I’ve got this one in me. To tackle Snowdon and Cadair Idris, then drive the length of Wales and find somewhere to park at Pont ar Daf… it’s maybe too far an ask.
But something in me suspects I’ve written that before, too. And the lovely, lung-filling evenings will be so much longer and lighter by June.