mending

Sea glass I think, apropos nothing, before bed, always will be associated with that holiday in Arran.

When we walked cold pebbled beaches. Filled our pockets with sea glass treasures, diamond and emerald, washed up by the clear sea.

Where on St Valentine's day we crept out into the early morning, laid out a Valentine's heart of sea glass and snow drops, complex patterns on the dewy lawn.

How with intense, fervent, deliberate concentration, my brothers and I built our sea glass shrine on the wet grass, so our parents would wake and look down from the window to see our intricate evocation of love and togetherness.

Even though I knew they had argued all night. Perhaps we all knew.

I think I am better at fixing washing machines.