White Out

Saturday 29th January

Day 282

In the car driving to Budleigh Salteron for our walk my husbands asks me,

‘What’s horticulture?’

‘It’s to do with how you grow plants.’

‘What’s the difference between that and agriculture then?’

‘That’s more to do with farming and crops.’

‘ Oh yes, I remember now.’

But tomorrow he may ask me again.

We lace up our walking boots and strike out along the path. It hugs the edge of red clay cliffs which descend sheer into the pebble beach and roiling sea below us.The arctic wind slices through my jeans, burning my lips. I grip the hood of my jacket tight round my ears to bar the wind’s entry.

I imagine my husband’s vocabulary like flakes of dry skin snatched by the wind and tossed over the cliff. Whole words, not just their letters, but all their freight of meaning, disappearing into the pale white coffin of the sky. Lost forever.

‘We can turn back any time you want if it’s too cold for you,’ says my husband who is joyful, immersed in this raw, wild element.

It is too cold for me but I don’t like re-tracing my steps. So we swerve off to the left and head inland away from the sea cliffs. Our boots scrunch over limestone pitted fields with last years sweetcorn stubble sticking out of the farmer’s furrows. We follow a different path back to the car.

Sometimes I remember in my heart there is another way to see my husband’s disease. I long to hurl my rage and tears into the whipping wind. But some days, like today, I hold on tight to the hood of my fear, pointlessly wanting it to be how it was before. Hoping tonight’s glass of wine will white it out.